The Restless Dead Await
by Ihsan997
Summary: The Titans have fallen; their warriors of the Light have failed; the so-called "gods" of Azeroth are impotent. With the most imposing Legion invasion looming, an answer arises among those Forsaken by the living...for even demons, within the Twisting Nether, can die. Series of vignettes and oneshots building up toward end game. 40 chapters total
1. So you want to know?

**A/N: this isn't a traditional story with a climax; this is a series of vignettes and loosely connected oneshots. I won't always update on Saturday, like I do with my normal stories (where weekly updates are guaranteed). I won't always explain everything up front...it's more fun that way. Check my Deviant Art account for the occasional art piece based on these chapters.**

Dust motes float in the air of the dark, musty attic as you sit with your back to the door. What little light is present in order for them to even enter your vision wafts in through the cracks in the roof; the window to the side, covered in duct tape and paint, provides no view to the outside. Aside from the creepy, battered old doll on the crumbling bookshelf in the corner, there's little to look at.

As you wait, the chains hanging from the ceiling sway back and forth. You can almost hear the rust on the meat hooks at the end crinkle due to the natural scrape of the deteriorating links of iron, yet the holes in the roof aren't wide enough to allow air to blow through the attic. You keep listening for the faintest sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, or the scrape of boots on the dusty floor behind you, but no such creeping intruder approaches. You're left in the rickety chair, wondering just what sort of ghosts are watching you from places unseen.

You don't wait long before the ceiling chains rattle again. This time their movement is obviously controlled by an invisible force, but it hovers down in front of you so slowly that you don't panic. Rather rapidly, the darkness of the attic begins to coalesce in front of you, like a clump of shadow detached from the solid surfaces. It swells and frees itself from the constraints of light and color, finally taking form in front of you.

At the top, a cylindrical head forms, featureless aside from the two red eyes. The sentient patch of shade doesn't waste time.

"They say curiosity killed the cat...but you're not a cat, so I suppose the joke I wanted to make won't work." The shade pauses as if it expects you to reply to its hollow, whispering voice. "Cat got your...nevermind, I'll stop making jokes now. At least you're here."

The sound of a pained groan reaches your alert ears. It sounds like it came from several floors down, as do the sounds of many shuffling feet and a buckle clicking as it locks, but the shade ignores the sound.

"And I think I know why you're here," it tells you as an elongated patch of shadow extends from its body toward you, like an arm and hand wagging a finger. The appendage doesn't dissipate so much as it fades away when it's no longer in use...either that, or your vision is becoming distorted.

From the corner of your eye, you sense movement from the corner of the room. The wrecked bookshelf appears undisturbed, though you're not sure if the creepy doll was making the same facial expression just a few moments ago.

The shade hovers up and then down, almost like a balloon in the hands of an excited child. The red glow of its eyes dim, and with them, the attic somehow grows even darker.

"Let me tell you how the most effective fighting force of the Forsaken army began..."


	2. The Plan

**The Plan**

A necromancer, an acolyte, a mad scientist and a valkyrie walk into a bar. But instead of turning into a lame joke, they actually had important matters to discuss at one of Brill's few taverns that night.

Barghash, the necromancer and the only living human member of the Forsaken, leaned forward on his chair. "This place is too...public for a discussion like this," he said in a low voice. On the table in between all of them was a letter bearing the royal seal, though he moved to surreptitiously cover it with his hand whenever a stranger passed by their corner.

The mad scientist, an undead human who still had the ability to drink and exercised that ability to its fullest extent, waved his colleague's concerns away. "Nonsense; we've been granted an opportunity by the Dark Lady herself," Dr. Bunsenburger said as he scribbled illegible notes in his doctor's handwriting. "To be tasked with the raising of an entire battalion is a great honor."

The acolyte, an orc woman named Zulgha, appeared as relaxed as the good doctor. "Come on, there's nothing to worry about; we're doing this for the Forsaken army. Nobody will cause any problems..." From the corner of her eye, the orc shot the valkyrie a brief expression that was half mischievous and half mocking. "Not unless, you know, they're spying on us or something."

The lesser val'kyr frowned, but then quickly wiped the expression away. "I don't know why you're looking at me when you say that," Runa replied.

The orc put on an 'innocent' face that she knew would bother her winged colleague. "I wasn't looking at you."

For a few seconds, Barghash gave Zulgha a rather serious look, but then decided against saying anything. Whether the look had been enough to curb her antagonism or she'd chosen to ease up on Runa was anyone's guess. Bunsenburger was, as usual, oblivious to all of the world outside of his immediate interests.

"So let's see, here...Queen Sylvanas is requesting a contingent at least two-hundred personnel strong, but with full cover for both grounded and aerial combat...we are to land at Stormheim and sweep the entire continent westward before moving along to Suramar. She basically needs a cleanup crew."

Knowing that the good doctor knew little of military strategy, Barghash turned to face Zulgha. "I can handle the raising of fresh minions, but we'll need educated support as well..."

"I'll be on it," she replied, already anticipating what he'd wanted. "We have plenty of refugees here in Tirisfal who escaped the Cult of the Damned. I'm sure that within the generality of the Horde, we'll be able to find volunteers with...similar interest to ours."

Cautious and wary of the orc next to her, Runa tried to speak carefully to avoid any more verbal barbs. "I can help as well."

Zulgha opened her mouth to most likely make another cruel joke, but Barghash tactfully cut her off. "I'll be traveling to find the best fallen heroes we can raise; your talents would be useful."

Wary again, Runa paused as she tried to find the most delicate way to share her idea. "Well, actually...I had something else in mind. You see, the Queen had quite a few more of my fellows raised at the Battle of Andorhol. If I could bring more of my kind..." She paused again, this time for effect, and thankfully Zulgha actually looked intrigued rather than incredulous.

"That's...that would actually be much, much better," Barghash replied.

"If she can pull it off," Zulgha said. The fact that she'd said it so nonchalantly, without her usual higher tone when she was making fun of someone, bothered the valkyrie to no end. Fortunately for all of them, the good doctor's lack of situational awareness prevented an argument from starting.

"Good, good, we all know what we're doing then. We have three weeks before a heavy transport ship will arrive at the coast to take us to Stormheim. Let's get to work and make these three weeks count."

Barghash smiled grimly, infecting Zulgha as it spread and even helping Runa to relax a bit. "The restless dead await..." he said as he rose from the table.


	3. Dark Lady's Chosen

**Dark Lady's Chosen**

They stood atop a hill in northern Tirisfal Glades, surveying the remains of the last multi-guild raid by members of the Alliance. As numerous as those last invaders had been, they'd still fallen before they'd moved too far beyond the coast, most of the civilian inhabitants of Tirisfal not having known about the attack until a few days after it had been foiled. The red midday sky allowed just enough distorted sunlight through to shine on the open air trenches that marked the scene of the failed invasion. Bodies littered those trenches, many of them partially buried in mud and debris after a recent drizzle. Although it would be difficult, it would certainly make for a visually impressive scene.

Barghash stepped away from his skeletal horse, leaving it behind with the plague hounds he'd brought along with him. He was well-prepared and without disturbance, but ironically the anti-social human actually wished he had witnesses to what he was about to do. Considering the fact that Queen Sylvanas herself had met with him to personally christen his efforts that day, it would have reflected well on him if others could testify to the scene.

Then again...he was about to have quite a few witnesses, even if it would be to their own raising.

Hiking his red robes up with one hand, he walked along the driest part of the ground to keep his boots clean as he approached the single largest contingent among the Alliance invaders. Among the bodies, he identified mostly humans with a smattering of half elves (a necromancer could always tell the difference between the skeletons of different sentient species) in a single fallen formation. According to what the Queen's informants had told them, this was an elite group of Menethil defenders sent to take revenge for previous conflicts...if only they knew how they'd end up.

Once he was in the middle of the twenty-strong unit of spearmen, Barghash raised his gauntlet. A silver-steel alloy with enchanted rings embedded in the finger slots, it was merely an enhancement of power, not a replacement; what he was about to do was all from practice and study.

Digging down deep, he began to tug on his mana pool from the bottom up. It was a metaphysical movement that only magic users would understand, and that few of them would tax themselves with regularly. Somewhat akin to peeling off a bandaid by ripping one's hair off first, he tugged and drew up the bulk of his power like one entity, heaving the ley lines he'd detected and bending them with brute magical force. The muscle of his forearm actually strained as he tapped more mana, balancing it like a stack of plates as he molded it to the dimensions he needed.

Sweat dripped down his brow as he willed the death magic to stabilize, eschewing his usual finesse in spell channeling. One by one the rings embedded in his gauntlet began to glow, augmenting his power and propping up the mana funnel he'd established between the anchor that was himself and the physical realm. Spontaneous hunger attacked his stomach as he strained, but the distraction wasn't enough to deter him as he scraped the entire landscape with his spell. Only when he was sure the inanimate, chaotic power had been forcibly subdued did he turn his palm to the ground. The swirls of black, green and purple came into view, drilling into the muck and peat of the open air grave on that ruddy, raven-infested field. He grinned; even if there wasn't anybody there to observe how far he'd pushed himself, at least he now knew that he was capable of doing what even Scourge necromancers wouldn't risk.

He'd raised twenty strong-willed warriors _at the same time_.

The ground beneath his boots shook, though the rumble was mostly absorbed by the usntable nature of the mud. Brown bubbles popped up as if the natural air pockets in the trampled soil had been disturbed, creating sick sloshing sounds as the wet topsoil shifted around. Satisfied, Barghash retained only a cursory grip on the mass raise dead spell, knowing that the chain reaction had already been initiated.

Writhing like maggots in rotten flesh, the fallen Alliance warriors escaped what had originally been their end. Indistinguishable limbs thrashed, slowed by the thick muck but never stopped due to their unholy strength. Absent were the groans normally associated with physical strain; the soldiers merely rose as they'd been summoned, fighting their way out of yards of ground above them in some cases, relentless as they heeded the call of undeath.

Some of them were mere skeleton soldiers, like empty suits of armor with the faint yellowed calcium peeking through the visors of their helmets. Others were mostly fleshy and preserved, if greyed and desiccated, and almost appeared like monstrous humanoids. Others were in between, appearing of be patchworks of flesh and bone. All of them, however, priced their way out of their accidental mass grave with a vigor unattainable by all but the most fit of living humans, and certainly beyond what Barghash could have mustered himself. He let go entirely, needing no blood pact or constant magical link draining on his mana pool once his minions had been reanimated.

Without even being told, all twenty of the spearmen lined up in a long marching column. Their formation was longer than it was wide, perfectly prepared for a strong push against enemies hiding in bottlenecks or attempting to fortify a position. Their armor was mostly intact since it hadn't been in the mud long enough to rust yet, and even their spears were miraculously intact. They'd supposedly been hit by the apothecaries before they'd even attacked, thus preserving them as perfectly as the Queen's informants had claimed.

Of course, their shields all bore the Alliance insignia, but that was a simple matter of labor and paint. And Barghash grinned even wider when he realized that they were ready to do far more than that.

"Must hear and obey," all twenty of them droned at once, perfectly in sync and mostly lacking sentience.

Taking a deep breath, he felt the hunger pang disappear as his mana pool slowly started to regenerate after so much exertion in such a short amount of time. No, he wouldn't need witnesses to their actual raising; the unit's internal harmony was testimony enough for what he'd achieved.

Pointing toward the south, he already began to walk back over toward his undead horse. "You are to march with me back to Brill, where you'll await further instructions at a crypt marked for you. In twenty days, we leave for Stormheim." Without even a nod, the entire unit did as they were told, marching past him based on residual memories of the city they'd originally intended to raid in life. This time, they'd be marching on their new home base.

"You are the first...you are those honored with the Banshee Queen's blessing as the beginning. And so, you will forever be known as the Dark Lady's Chosen."


	4. Gates of Thanatos

**Gate of Thanatos**

Zulgha watched as the blight pylon rotated above the forest floor, humming in a hollow tone with every movement. Shadow magic crackled from its surface, tickling her spine as she followed its movement. The pylon was almost as large as some of the smaller trees in that part of the Plaguelands, yet her five visitors barely even seemed to strain as they chanted in unison. The obsidian object finally slowed as they sang the last refrain, eventually descending until the very tip of its bottom touched the black grass. A circle of blight was left in the parts of the planet it had floated over, and even when it was stationary, it continued to pulse every few seconds in a warning to any Light worshippers or nature-lovers who dared to approach too closely.

Zulgha's five visitors, all of them donning the same style of black robes as her, hung their heads low out of respect for the more experienced acolyte. In addition to her joy at all the ass-kissing she'd received from the hopefuls, she was also legitimately impressed by their portal skills. Unlike her enemy-frenemy relationship with Runa, she was actually willing to voice her praise this time.

A brief round of demure clapping caused the five of them to become visibly elated. One living orc like her, one undead orc, two undead humans and a recovering wretched blood elf, they were certainly a colorful bunch. Eyes of various colors glowed or otherwise shined at her applause, and one of the undead humans found the fortitude to speak.

"Did we do okay?" the human, who looked like he'd been young when the Forsaken plague had overtaken him, asked sheepishly.

Shooting him an incredulous - though not mocking - expression, Zulgha swept her arm in a gesture toward the blight they'd spread. "Are you kidding me? Come on, look at this. I know how hard it is to spread the blight and you guys just did it in record time." She turned to face all five of them. "Now, the final test is to see how easily you can shift this back to our lab in Brill. Doctor Bunsenburger will write to me from there via express mail to let me know the exact time of arrival."

"Yes, absolutely, absolutely," the young-looking undead man replied in an oddly chipper tonr as he hurried back over toward his colleagues. They all fell into a diamond formation around the pylon again, sticking their arms into their opposite robe sleeves and bowing their heads. "We can do this, everybody!"

Their chants began again, weaving in and out of the air as the pylon began to waver like heat rising into a mirage. In a matter of seconds, the pylon faded away with a metallic hum as if the inanimate object had a hearthstone etched into it. Once again, the acolytes displayed no signs of fatigue or mana burn, and the teleportation of the pylon halfway across the continent occurred in a matter of seconds.

"Did we do good?" the undead orc whispered to her fellows, not realizing that Zulgha could hear her.

"You've all done a fantastic demonstration," Zulgha replied as she approached, startling the nerdy yet skilled group. "This was just the icing on the cake...they way you moved that entire necropolis at the beginning was the best part."

The youngish undead human rubbed his hands together nervously. "But it took us a few minutes to do...it would be destroyed if we tried that on a real battlefield."

"That's why we wouldn't start that way. Look, if we want to beat the Burning Legion, then we need to be better at their own tactics." Zulgha picked up a stick and began drawing lines in the blight to illustrate her point. "You always start with the shock troops, because they're the most aggressive and the mostly likely to survive an immediate assault from the enemy. That's assuming the worst case scenario, and they'd basically sacrifice themselves for you to bring in the rest of the defenders. _Then_ , and only then, would you start brining in the field command center, the munitions, et cetera, et cetera. So don't worry, your summoning time for structures is still faster than anything I've ever seen."

The other, non-undead orc, a short and slight man for their kind, looked sincerely humbled by Zulgha's words. "Well, I hope you'll take us into consideration, then," he said to his living counterpart.

Zulgha laughed heartily until she started to snort. "Consideration? Guys, you're already hired. Welcome to the battalion."

Dorky gasps rang out from them, and the wretched Sindorei slapped her cheeks with her hands like a painted screamer on a pier. "Really? Oh, you have no idea how much this means to us! The official Forsaken army recruiter told us there was no need for our skills."

"Even in undeath, many of the dreadguards haven't let go of their machismo or bravado. Don't take what the say too seriously; take it from me." The five finally mustered the courage to look up at Zulgha; even though most of them were older than her, they knew she'd been doing what they do for longer than them. "Just because you don't serve directly in a combat role doesn't mean you don't have value to add to the war effort. Those guards and soldiers rely on acolytes to heal their undead flesh by spreading the blight, to open death gates for reinforcements, to summon structures and fortifications...don't believe anyone who ridicules you as a pencil-neck or a cloth-wearer. The entire effort rests on the shoulders of you and people in similar roles."

All five of them became solemn, hanging their heads until their hoods obscured their faces as if they were embarrassed by the praise. "That's all we ever wanted to hear," the youngish undead human replied softly.

Giving the man a warm pat on the back, Zulgha silently congratulated herself on a recruitment job well-done. "Continue to perform well and you'll hear more of it. Commensurate with your performance, of course. Here, take this." From a hidden pocket inside of her robe, she handed the young man a note for Bunsenburger she'd already written in advance. "Show this to the old coot and he'll arrange lodging for you all once you arrive in Brill."

The undead human accepted the note but appeared puzzled. "You won't be coming back with us?" he asked.

"No, not yet; your first assignment is to open a death gate to Andorhol for me before you move on to Brill. We're on a big recruitment drive for the next twenty days...and I have a few interviews to conduct with some other VIPs. This project is going to be big."


	5. Flight of the Valkyries

**Flight of the Valkyries**

Runa clenched and unclenched her fists rhythmically as she waited in line. Although the val'kyr were counted among the ranks of the undead, her heart still pumped shadows like the lifeblood of her partially corporeal essence. And as she neared the front of the queue in Undercity's Royal Quarter, her heart was pumping that darkness at a supersonic speed. The Banshee Queen would only be in the capital for that single afternoon before taking a portal back to the Broken Isles, where all world leaders were desperately needed.

Down the narrow hall, she could finally see the two dreadguards checking the identification papers of anyone seeking an audience with the Queen. Most of them didn't appear to receive an exceptionally long visit, for despite the hours Runa had spent in line, the visitors were also led right back out of the inner sanctum at a rapid pace. She'd actually tried to jump the line at first; since the val'kyr were the reason why the Dark Lady had been able to sustain her undeath, Runa had assumed she'd receive special treatment. Instead, she'd received an embarrassing rebuke and swift ejection to the back of the line. Apparently, there was a new ordinance eliminating all forms of special privilege, and everybody would be recognized as equal undead under the law.

As the last few people in front of her entered, she was finally able to peek inside the inner sanctum. Numerous guards flanked a figure obscured from her vision, though there was no mystery as to who it was. Aside from the regular bats and wraiths hanging around the ceiling, there were also a few groups of dignitaries lining the walls and speaking to one another quietly. Makeshift workspaces for diplomats and officials had been set up, causing the Queen's room to become more crowded than Runa had ever seen it before. Her heart raced even faster as she worried about the exact words she'd need to use to make her request before being interrupted or ushered out.

"Next!" one of the dreadguards barked, the man's voice quiet but unfriendly.

Although Runa didn't jump - one stopped being startled at loud noises after fighting through a few wars - the call was unexpected, and the winged warrior hesitated for a few moments until finally hurrying inside. Trying to maintain her best posture as she walked, she followed a series of gesturing guards until she reached the wide platform dominated by civil servants, tables and couriers walking back and forth. The amount of activity wasn't what bothered her, however. What killed her joy of seeing Queen Sylvanas was the presence of Rabia, one of the nine greater val'kyr, standing next to the Queen.

If Runa's heart had been racing before, it sank to rock bottom at the sight of her superior. Because of the high status of their class, the handful of greater val'kyr were brutal when dealing with the numerous lesser val'kyr like her. They not only had to protect Forsaken ground troops from aerial assault, but also had to maintain the image of the ethereal flying troops at all times. Their behavior, gear and even posture was regulated; violations were often recompensed with temporary banishments to Helheim. And given the way Rabia regarded Runa with a stone cold stare as the latter approached their monarch, the judgment of public image was most definitely in effect.

"Approach," a bored-sounding civil servant droned as the previous visitor, some sort of fungus farmer, walked away with a written proof of a land grant in his clutches.

Thankful that none of the various people gathered around paid her any mind, Runa attempted to calm herself as she approached and knelt down in front of her monarch. "My Queen," she said humbly, careful to avoid turning her face directly toward the addressee even though her eyes were concealed by her helmet. Per the hierarchy of val'kyr, she remained kneeling since she hadn't been told to do otherwise.

"Greetings, my subject. What have you..." Sylvanas paused, immediately causing Runa to experience a near-panic attack. Fortunately, fears of a worst case scenario were quelled when the Queen continued. "Ah, you're the one I assigned to monitor Bunsenburger's shenanigans up in Brill, correct?"

Immediately, about half of Runa's anxiety left her. Sylvanas met such a large number of people daily; it was an honor to actually be remembered. "Yes, my queen; I'm Runa, disciple of Rabia. I'm flattered by your remembrance."

Even though she could only see the floor via her semi-telepathic vision, she had a feeling that the queen's calmness contrasted to her master's sternness. "Is there anything to report, then? Has that nut managed to remain within the mandate I specified for him?" Sylvanas asked.

"Yes, my queen; he hasn't delved into any unauthorized plague or flesh-shaping experiments since his last citation."

"And his special grant, the one for research on how to infect demons with undeath...has there been progress?"

"Yes, my queen; I overheard him saying that the process might even be financially feasible for a mass scale assault on Legion forces by the end of this year, as long as he continues to receive adequate funding."

Sylvanas hummed her approval, the sound resonating in Runa's ears, and she found herself wishing she could at least look up and see the face of the leader of all free undead. "Continue monitoring the operation as you have been, then," the Banshee Queen replied, "and ensure that they're not aware of your efforts."

"Yes, my queen-"

No sooner had she finished the phrase than had Rabia taken her hopes, crumpled them like a wad of scrap paper, and stepped all over them.

"You may go."

For a few seconds, the words didn't register in Runa's mind. Of course, she'd heard them just fine, but denial is a powerful urge. Had there not been a line of people waiting behind her, she might have simply pretended not to hear. But the notion of the dreadguards literally pulling her down from the platform by her wings granted her the audacity to actually glance up at her master.

"I'm sorry, ma'am?"

That stone cold stare impossibly hardened, displaying the same domineering form of intimidation that the greater val'kyr had always shown to her. "I think we've heard enough, Runa," the unsympathetic counterpart said bluntly. "You can go, now."

To say that it felt like a slap in the face didn't quite do the emotion justice. Runa knew that her master was harsh, but to deny her subordinate the right even to speak was a shock. It didn't even serve any sort of disciplinary purpose, or as some sort of a protection for the image of their kind; it was merely bullying. And unlike Zulgha's bullying, it wasn't done out of a bizarre and inappropriately expressed form of friendship.

Hope rapidly drained from her psyche, leaving Runa to desperately grasp at any straw she could catch before she was sent away disappointed. The callousness of her master, the one who'd raised her from the dead of Northrend only to constantly tear her down, was the straw that finally broke her back.

Clearing her throat when she heard the footsteps of an approaching dreadguard, Runa finally broke all protocol for her caste. "Well, actually, I'm not done yet," she said, feeling a momentary sense of terror when she noticed Rabia's jaw drop open slightly.

"Excuse me?" Rabia asked rhetorically.

Sylvanas, likely unaware of the internal hierarchy and power struggles of her winged minions, tilted her head slightly. Like the beauty of a full moon shining over a pile of skulls or a fountain of blood flowing after she decapitated an enemy, Runa felt as if the greatest holiday gift she'd ever received was placed in front of her right there. The Queen of the entire Forsaken furrowed her brow in displeasure at a greater val'kyr in favor of one of the numerous lesser ones.

"Let her speak."

Even before she'd made her request, the matter was finished. All of them, lesser and greater, were bound to the Banshee Queen's existence; obedience was as guaranteed for them as it was for the abominations guarding all the passageways in Undercity. Scowling at Runa so severely that her lip curled up and revealed her teeth, Rabia begrudgingly admitted defeat after a single order from their monarch.

Her heart racing once more, Runa tried to remember the exact words. "My Queen, as you know, Bunsenburger also expects me to participate in the battalion you've tasked him with organizing. If I can contribute my own unit to that battalion, then not only will I gain more of his trust and thus more access to what secrets he might be hiding from you, but I'll also gain a measure of autonomy that could protect me from counter-scrutiny. And if I want to bring to the table a unit that seems natural and relevant to his task..."

Perhaps it was nervousness which caused Runa to pause, but her point had already been made clear even when her sales pitch had come out with words vastly different from what she'd planned. Like a dream come true, Sylvanas nodded and turned to the seething greater val'kyr next to her.

"Rabia, those lesser val'kyr you raised last week; who were they?"

Quickly wiping the scowl from her face before the Queen noticed, Rabia refused to even look at Runa, reduced to a smoldering heap of defeat. "Baldrun, Gemma, Palmira and Varpul...there were nine in total," Runa's master reluctantly replied.

Whether Sylvanas was oblivious to the internal politics or simply above it, the Queen still moved the conversation along quickly. "Good. Round them up as soon as possible and send them to the ruins of Lordaeron to meet with our Runa, here. Bunsenburger will merely be informed that he's receiving a ten-woman unit as a grant for the war effort. Which also means he'll yet again be indebted to us."

Runa couldn't help but stare up at Rabia the whole time, internally gloating that she'd actually beaten her superior. "Of course, my Queen," Rabia replied flatly.

"You are...so kind," Runa said to Sylvanas as she bowed her head one more time.

Wordlessly, Sylvanas nodded and motioned with a finger for Runa to move aside. Ecstatic that she'd won and not foolish enough to push her luck, Runa stepped away until she was led out by one of the dreadguards.

"The Flight of the Valkyries is at hand..."


	6. Plaguebearers

**Plaguebearers**

Bunsenburger furiously shifted around the illustrations on the board in his office, sliding around the little magnets that held each picture in place. He'd been making incredible progress in his theory that the conventional color wheel was visually inaccurate, spurned on by the accusation of Brill's mayor that his idea was 'ridiculous' and that he himself was 'insane.' Nobody could reasonably claim that color wheels weren't inaccurate representations invented by paint mixers to make money, and he was worried that if he didn't cancel all of his appointments and devote his attention solely onto that random idea at that exact moment, and not a minute later, he'd forget the details of the theory and lose it forever.

All of his amazing, unprecedented work was disrupted by the sharp rapping on his door.

"Doctor," rasped the bone golem he'd constructed as a doorman.

Disturbed by the sudden interruption, Bunsenburger faltered and slid his illustrations of true colors in the wrong directions, losing what must assuredly have been a few hours of work. "I really don't think there could be a worse time for such an interruption," he grumbled, not even bothering to look back at his minion.

Since all subtlety and subtext were lost on undead minions, the bone golem continued to persist in its intrusion. "Visitors, doctor...plagued visitors...with flying weapons. They want to join...the battalion," it rasped.

Shocked, the news of strangers talking about his current project finally pulled him away from his board. "They what? This isn't supposed to be public knowledge yet, how did they find out?" he asked.

The bone golem wasted no time in answering. "Don't know...they heard. They have flying weapons."

"Yes, I heard you the first time. Now, where are these visitors?"

The bone golem paused for a moment, though its lack of a face made its primitive reaction unreadable. "Outside. With machines. You didn't hear the engines?" There was a sincere form of confusion in the walking cage of calcium's voice, incensing the good doctor at the notion that one of his creations was questioning him.

Bunsenburger tossed his notes to the side brusquely and walked out. "Organize my entire office," he ordered as he left the loosely organized chaos that was his desk and walked out of the main laboratory building.

Outside, his estate was a mess as ravens scattered in fright and ghouls ran back and forth as if they were trying to catch a squirrel. What had agitated them, however, was painfully obvious: right in the middle of the courtyard were eight small flying machines - glass bubble cockpits, sharp propellers, oversized screws and all. What immediately stuck out, however, were the mounted weapons: rather than flak cannons as the Alliance used, there were canisters of green ooze connected to high powered nozzles. The tiny, sickly beings standing next to the machines were behind one of Bunsenburger's fellow undead humans, though the man was wearing a tabard for the doctor's most serious competitors for work.

"Grand Apothecary Faranell, what a delightful surprise," Bunsenburger blatantly lied, forcing himself to smile and shake the alchemist's hand as he approached.

Faranell considered Bunsenburger cautiously, pursing his grey lips as if measuring his words. "Doctor," the leader of the Royal Apothecary Society said with a nod, "I won't take much of your time."

"Oh? And what's this all about?" Bunsenburger asked, once again forcing himself to smile as he wondered just how the hell his constant enemy knew about his current project. He didn't have to wait long.

"The Queen informed me of your current task; it seems you'll hit Stormheim rather hard in three weeks."

"She did, did she?" Bunsenburger restrained himself from speaking further, frustrated once again at Sylvanas' mistrust of him yet complete trust in Faranell. Or, Faranell the failure, as Bunsenburger called him behind his back.

"Word spreads fast...with the Legion here, very little discretion is exercised anymore. There's a very public effort to throw everything we have at them. Which is why I want us to help each other."

The eight sickly little people - leper gnomes, apparently - tried to hide behind the engines of their machines, pretending to be busy as they very obviously eavesdropped. Bunsenburger forced himself to smile despite his anger at being spied on, mistrusted and talked about, gritting his teeth in the process.

"And I'm assuming that help relates to the war effort?" he asked in a barely civil tone.

Faranell remained so calm and direct that Bunsenburger wanted to scream. "Yes, doctor. To the war effort, and to my former apprentices here," Faranell said while pointing to the nervous gnomes. "I want you to recruit these fellows as one of your aerial units."

Bunsenburger stopped gritting his teeth momentarily when a definitive wall was placed in the path of his ire. "Is that...the Forsaken plague?" he asked while staring in shock at the mounted canisters, the value of the offer finally dawning on him.

The gnomes started peeking out at the two undead humans, becoming noticeably less timid when Bunsenburger openly showed interest in them. The green miasma of disease wafted from them like fumes, a sign of the infamous disease that only their otherwise fragile race could survive.

"Times are tough, Doctor," Faranell said, obviously beginning one of his insufferable monologues. "So much funding has been diverted directly to the front lines that research and development is suffering. We no longer have the funds to keep these fellows in our direct employ, and since leper gnomes are still living, they need to work in order to eat.

"Bunsenburger...these eight people are talented, truly talented, and they're devoted to the shadow. They're proud to be members of the Forsaken. They have so much to offer and it's an absolute tragedy that their skills go to waste."

Ever suspicious of the alchemists, Bunsenburger tried to play the upper hand. "Not only has the Alliance - whom our faction is currently working with in the Broken Isles - fanatically opposed the use of the new plague, but so have most of our allies in the Horde."

Rather than appearing flustered, Faranell looked at the good doctor like he was an idiot, immediately reigniting a bit of that anger. "Bunsenburger...do you really think anyone will face an ethics complaint over infecting the Burning Legion with a demon-specific plague?" Faranell asked rhetorically. "Especially when you're already employing a former member of the Cult of the Damned who can spread the blight at will?"

The thinly veiled threat toward Zulgha, Bunsenburger's most important employee in the departments of logistics and fortifications, hit him so hard that his anger was stung and tamed. Faranell was right: both of them were responsible for subordinates who broke most norms of international law.

"Very well...we haven't organized any aerial units yet and I'm sure that we'll need them," Bunsenburger sighed, feeling his undead heart beat for the first time in a long time as it absorbed the stress of admitting defeat so early in the verbal duel. "So what can these fellows do?"

Direct and a little bit terse, Faranell appeared to be trying to end the conversation since he'd gotten what he wanted. "It isn't complicated; you've seen what the Gnomish gyrocopters can do. These ones just happen to spray streams of Forsaken plague instead of firing rounds of flak. The plague specifically bonds to the outer skin layers of demons and rapidly eats away at them in a damage-over-time effect that can't be stopped until they're sent back to the Nether. My eight apprentices-"

"I thought they were _my_ apprentices now?"

Unable to suffer the loss gracefully, Bunsenburger threw in one last jab. Stopping so abruptly that the boil-covered gnomes began to stare at both men, Faranell looked absolutely floored. There was simply no comeback after such a deal had been made, nor could any retort have been delivered without Faranell looking like the smaller man. After a few tense moments of silence, Faranell absorbed the barb and moved on.

"Your eight apprentices know how to produce more of this specific strand of the plague," Faranell said, folding his arms behind his back thereafter. "So with all things considered, I think we can declare our deal finished."

"Sounds good," Bunsenburger replied, allowing Faranell no room for verbal revenge.

Not wanting to expose himself to further insult, Faranell nodded to the good doctor before bidding farewell to each of the leper gnomes. He wasted no time in taking his leave, exiting the estate and disappearing into the mist down the road. The iron gates of the estate swung closed, leaving the slightly overwhelmed gnomes fidgeting as they awaited their orders.

With his rival gone, Bunsenburger was finally able to reveal his true reaction. "I have a feeling that you'll all be extremely significant to our efforts," he said while patting one of the gnomes on the shoulder and ushering them toward the main laboratory building. "Come now, my main office is inside...I'm just living to hear about just how your specific brew of the plague affects demons so strongly..."


	7. Skullcrushers

**Skullcrushers**

 **Be warned...major spoilers for the fate of the Titans and Velen in the Legion expansion are in this chapter.**

Barghash finally stepped out of the death gate, following the acolytes Zulgha had recruited once they'd stabilized their portal. The grassy forest floor of Nightsong Woods curled away from the shadowy gate, visibly afraid of the slight essence of blight that surrounded the portal. Little did nature know, though, that the herald of undeath was ironically now its sworn protector. After all...there was no way the shadow could rule Azeroth if _all_ of it was allowed to wither away.

The five acolytes hung their heads impossibly low, hiding their faces in the folds of their hoods as they glanced around nervously. The inhabitants of Ashenvale didn't take kindly to their ilk, and if their recruitment plans were to come to fruition, they'd be stationed there for almost an entire day.

The diminutive living orc among the acolytes wrought his wrists while ducking next to Barghash - this despite the fact that they were in a clearing without anywhere to hide. "Just as we promised, sir - this is the exact spot," he whispered while pointing toward a dirt patch in the clearing surrounded by a low fence of draenic metals.

At ease, Barghash strode over to the makeshift draenei mass grave and took ahold of the unused fence entryway, pulling the little swinging gate off its post entirely and tossing it to the ground. "Yes, your teamwork is as impressive as Zulgha's performance review. You've all done well," the living human replied without turning back to them as he entered the gravesite and started to inspect the numerous tombstones.

The acolytes, for their part, huddled together and chattered among themselves with a combination of nervous and excited energy. "Thank you so much, sir," the recovering wretched blood elf said in between puffs on her mana vape stick.

Ignoring them entirely - a necromancer wasn't accustomed to the emotional needs of minions - Barghash began to count up the tombstones based on stated profession, ignoring the names and identities. "So this is where they lay...a draenei contingent that fell to the satyr while establishing Forest Song. There are quite a few of them, but I'm seeing something...and I'm getting an idea..." His voice trailed off as he began to crunch the numbers in his head, leaving the acolytes known as the Gates of Thanatos to wonder what he was doing.

One of the undead humans, a woman who simply looked aged rather than properly undead aside from her glowing eyes, mustered the courage to question their leader. "There are fifty-three Vindicators among the deceased here...that's a few more than we'd even expected," she said shyly, though her tacit suggestion was shot down.

"No. That isn't how military strategy works. We planned this battalion around clean, specific numbers of troops, and that's what we'll rely on. The undead can be repaired and reanimated, so reserve troops simply isn't an issue, unlike the ranks of the living." Barghash paused for a moment, pointing at the woman as if he'd suddenly realized a previously hidden secret. "But you have a point about there being more troops...we'll need protection while we're here in Ashenvale. Three of those big fellows are enough. Good on you for mentioning it."

Ever unused to actually being appreciated, the acolytes bowed to him as he stepped just out of the little metal fence. Ever unused to excessive interaction with those under his command, Barghash ignored them as he raised his hand and began drawing up his mana pool. Focusing in the same way the last time he'd raised twenty someodd troops at once, he channeled the spell more slowly this time.

"Draenei are worshippers of the holy Light; their innate resistance to undeath will almost reach the level of the dwarves," he announced while focusing his vision on the rising plumes of green and purple magic rising from the graves. "I'll need all five of you to focus on blighting the graveyard and forcing the Light out of it while I focus on the regular job of raising these dead into undead."

Too timid to even verbally acknowledge the command when directly ordered, all five acolytes formed a diamond around the mass grave and began to chant, adding to the rapid swirl of death magic infusing the ground in a perverse antithesis to consecration. Rather than fighting the Light, their blight simply extinguished it, allowing no opportunity for it to even approach the location from any plane. A black bubble formed around the gravesite, blotting out even the necromancer's vision as he worked on a mass reanimation spell blindly.

Only after great effort and consternation did Barghash feel the burden of the spell leave him, signaling that the bodies had been raised completely and were no longer in need of his call. Slowing his spellcast until it faded away rather than interrupting it abruptly, he took a deep breath and waved to the acolytes. "That's enough; they're beyond the reach of even A'dal, now."

Following his lead and ending their spell gradually, the acolytes pulled the blight out of existence, allowing the plant life of the forest floor to breathe again. What they saw standing in the mass grave caused them (but not Barghash) to gasp.

Completely raised and combat ready were fifty-one draenei vindicators. The draenei were impressive creatures even in death; the vindicators donned the heaviest plate armor possible, perhaps to compensate for the fact that they often didn't carry shields - and these were no different. Every one of them wielded gigantic, two handed maces, far larger than what any human and most orcs could handle. The fact that they had tails for balance and stood atop two ram-like hooves gave them the appearance of aggressive preparation for a strike even when they stood at rest. None of them wore helmets, but they compensated for that by the horns of the females and the forehead crests of the males.

The ground had been ripped up as the bulky suits of armor dug themselves up, leaving a few bodies of other individuals scattered. Two of the vindicator corpses appeared to have been too damaged at the time of their deaths to be reanimated, and flopped around helplessly like dismembered zombies. Without Zulgha or Dr. Bunsenburger's skills, Barghash would be unable to piece them together himself, and a quick clench of his left silver gauntlet cut their undeath and caused them to lay at rest.

Another grim smile overtook him as he observed their newest additions. They were mostly skeleton with very little - if any - flesh remaining, and their eyes glowed a light blue indicating only partial sentience. For undead minions, rather than undead _people_ , incomplete sentience was perfect.

"The Burning Legion has returned; they're assaulting your people's new home with a bigger invasion than they've ever mustered. This world is unprepared. It's unprepared because it refuses to adapt its strategy."

The glowing eyes of the skeletal draenei flickered, and their skulls rotated to watch him like owls as he paced in front of them slowly. They hung on his every word, the perfect example of military organization.

"The Titans have _died_ ," he said in a voice with a volume just below a shout. Like a zombie spontaneously dancing to music it listened to in life, the draenei skeletons began to shake inside of their suits of armor, the only reaction possible to their incomplete minds. "The naaru Xera herself has confirmed it, and Archmage Khadgar has been unable to suppress the news. The Titans, the bringers of order to the known universe, are _dead_ ," he repeated for effect as the undead draenei shivered once more.

"The warriors of pure light are stuck across the universe, locked in unwinnable fights against each branch of the Legion. Velen, the false prophet of refugees, has broken to the point of ineffectiveness after the Legion tricked him into killing his own son. Yet the Alliance continues to call on its Light, and the Horde continues to call on its elements, repeating the same failed tactics as before. And if we leave it to them...we will lose.

"Only _we_ offer a new strategy. Only the _Forsaken_ are willing to accept the costs of what need to be done. Light has failed to stop the tides of darkness. And so _we_ \- you and us - will win this. Queen Sylvanas demands an army so dark, so bleak, that even the Legion will become lost in its shadow. Will you answer her call?"

In one harmonious, if hollow, voice, the undead draenei chanted like the true fanatics that their people were, no matter what they fought in service of: "As it was written, so shall it be," they thundered, causing the acolytes to appear pensive once more as they started glancing around for spies.

"The Gates of Thanatos will take you to Tirisfal Glades, where you'll await our transport ships," Barghash said while pointing sharply at the acolytes, who nearly tripped over each other as they began to open a death gate wide enough for several columns of the broad-shouldered draenei to march through.

As the fifty alien warriors carried their skullcrushing maces through the gate, Barghash stopped the fifty-first, a female skeleton with a skull topped in curved horns like a wicked crown.

"You...you'll stay with us," he said to the mass of metal and bone. "We'll need your assistance as we raise more allies here in enemy territory.

"Don't worry...you will crush many a skull yet."

 **A/N: prepare for a small arc as Barghash roams Kalimdor. We'll return to our other heroes in Lordaeron shortly.**


	8. Elune's Forgotten

**Elune's Forgotten**

 **Be warned again...huge, major spoilers for what happens to Ysera and the night elves in Legion.**

Barghash had almost run out of patience by the time the group had discovered the fallen huntress lodge he'd heard about at a temporary Horde checkpoint to the north. They'd spent hours roaming Nightsong Woods, teleporting through the eastern half of Ashenvale until they'd finally decided to continue searching on foot. The walking didn't bother him; on the contrary, he was in much better shape than most magic users. The acolytes, however, asked too many questions for his liking. He much preferred the undead draenei hammerer, who simply did what she was told like a normal minion.

"Is that the right lodge?" the undead orc asked.

Ignoring the man until he was sure of the answer, Barghash pointed toward a high hedge off the main road in a silent order for them to wait. He wasn't entirely sure himself, and the way that the canopy in Ashenvale always blotted out most direct sunlight made it difficult to know for sure until he'd inspected the run down night elf structure.

He'd never visited Kalimdor previously, and thus he had no idea whether or not the night elves made a habit of leaving their outposts in disrepair or hurried to repair and restaff them. Following the paved walkway up to the lodge's steps, he merely pointed for the undead draenei to walk inside first. Hoof clops followed thereafter as she barged into the lodge, stalking around inside in search of potential threats.

"Clear," she droned back to him when no such threat was found, and Barghash entered the trashed huntress lodge.

Inside, everything was a mess. Like the high elves, night elves seemed comfortable with the contradiction of cramped little houses but open, expansive military structures, and the lodge was a testament to the proper usage of open space in architecture. Unfortunately for the former inhabitants, that space was filled with cobwebs, shattered tables and weapon racks, discarded munitions and lots and lots of dead, decayed elves.

"This is it," Barghash called out the door of the lodge, waving for the acolytes to follow him inside. "This is the lodge that fell in a sneak attack."

The acolytes all hurried inside, eager to leave the open spaces of the woodlands of the dark elves. Were any sentinels to happen upon the deathly endeavors, their reaction was likely to be furious beyond all reason.

Inspecting the walls and floors for any signs of demonic corruption, Barghash spoke his thoughts aloud. "That goblin fellow at the checkpoint claimed a contingent of demons attacked this lodge in daytime - when the night elves were sleeping - and began killing them without the honor of letting them fight back. The elves killed all the demons anyway, but also all died here save a single sentinel who survived long enough her story to a sympathetic Horde officer on the road before succumbing to her wounds. The world was so caught up with alternate Draenor that, apparently, the sentinels failed to repair this place until now." He pointed to the night elf corpses and then to the undead vindicator, and she began dragging them to the center of the lodge. "Their loss."

The acolytes calmed down considerably when they were indoors; their ruggedness still needed to be honed. "Sir," the undead orc said while bowing his head. "These people have an innate resistance to demonic corruption. Will that translate into resistance to undeath?"

"Not in the least; elves are as susceptible to undeath as humans or trolls. But...blight this lodge while I cast, just in case nature reacts poorly. I doubt the spirits of the night elves will fully understand the necessity of what we're doing."

"Yes sir," the undead orc replied, and the five acolytes quickly spread across all floors of the lodge as they strategically blighted the corners.

Counting up the elves, Barghash guesstimated what he'd need for an effective fighting unit. "Remove the archers, the huntress and that druid; there aren't enough of any of them to form an effective unit," he ordered the undead vindicator. "These halberdiers, however..."

Of the polearm-wielding sentinels in question, a number of them were too damaged to reanimate. As he'd learned, fleshy corpses were best raised soon after their deaths; once they'd rotted, they were so fragile that simply moving them often caused them to fall apart. Without a proper Forsaken surgeon, his necromancy wouldn't be enough to bring them back. Skeletons, on the other hand, could be raised at any time, and although they were fragile when naked, they were as sturdy as any living soldier when armored. And the night elves had a curious habit of heavily padding down their females in plate armor and putting them on the front lines while the men either flanked enemies in disorganized formations or healed allies from afar. To each their own, Barghash thought.

When the vindicator had removed the halberdiers that were damaged beyond reanimation as well as the odd numbers, they were left with only thirty soldiers for the unit. Those thirty, however, were each likely several thousand years old and possessed combat skills beyond even the most seasoned Legion wrathguards.

After fighting against the Light to raise fifty vindicators, raising thirty elves whose magic resistance was almost solely aimed at a different school of magic was relatively easy. The spellcast took less time to set up, less time to execute, and left Barghash feeling relatively unburdened by the time he'd bound them to his will. Unencumbered by grave soil, the night elves quickly jumped to their feet, offering no resistance to his control.

Knowing he could push them further since their resistance to undeath was slim to nil, Barghash proverbially hit them hard and fast, ensuring that they'd fight as zealously for the Dark Lady as they did for their precious trees.

"The Legion attacked your lodge, like cowards in the day; but you still stopped them. If only your leaders deserved to have you march before them."

True to elven behavior, the tall skeletons wearing sentinel plate didn't react, though the way they all absolutely froze in place indicated that he most definitely had their attention.

"Ysera is _dead_...and _Tyrande_ killed her. Let that sink in for a moment," he said, reveling in the sound of their gauntlets creaking as they squeezed the shafts of their polearms even more tightly.

"In a single day, Xavius corrupted Ysera and Cenarius, defeated Malfurion despite being outnumbered, reduced Tyrande to a melancholy shadow of her former glory and forced the High Priestess to euthanize the broodmother of the Green Dragonflight. Cenarius and Malfurion were later saved - by non-Kaldorei heroes who killed Ursoc in the process, no less - but only after they'd been bested by a mere tool of the Legion. Xavius is the least of what the demons have in store for this planet.

"You are sentinels; you are the most elite fighting force on the only planet to successfully resist a Legion invasion. But this time, your leaders have fallen and the Legion is coming at us ten times as hard. We - the Forsaken - offer you a second chance. A chance to take revenge for what happened to your lodge. A chance to stop the demons once and for all. A chance to earn your rightful place among the stars, where all heroines of the Kaldorei reside after death. Will you rise to the call?"

So fast that he didn't actually see the motion, the thirty warrior women all knelt in front of him. "Ash velanoh," they said in ghostly multiplied voices similar to those of banshees. They rose once more, holding out their halberds as if offering them for a unit inspection.

Elated that the tales of sentinel militarism were true, Barghash actually applauded undead minions for the first time in his entire career. "I have no idea what that means, but I like it," he replied before stomping his boot on the wooden floorboard. "Gates of Thanatos! Open a portal and send these troops back to Tirisfal! We're almost done here...

"...Elune may have forgotten them, but the shadow never discards the valiant."


	9. Nader's Raiders

**Nader's Raiders**

Once the Kaldorei halberdiers had been sent back to Tirisfal, Barghash regrouped with his followers outside of the ruined lodge. Because the acolytes created portals so effortlessly, the trip to Kalimdor had been rather convenient; and because they'd raised two entire units in a matter of hours, that trip had been a resounding success. Their efforts on the continent appeared to be at an end.

"Are well all done?" one of the undead humans, a male who must have died at a young age, asked.

Taking a deep breath of the oddly smelling Nightsong Woods, Barghash finally allowed himself to stop and take in the surroundings for the first time. Even for a mortal pledged to the shadow such as himself, one couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the night elves' forest.

"I suppose we are...but we did come all the way to another continent. I don't think it would hurt to return to that temporary checkpoint we visited earlier. Just to see if there's any news from the war front."

Less nervous than before, the acolytes appeared amiable toward the idea. "Of course, sir," replied the oddly youngish undead, and the five of them promptly opened a death gate. The speed at which they were able to open the portals was rather impressive; the necromancer reminded himself to compliment them again, but later, just to make sure it didn't go to their heads.

Upon walking through the gate, Barghash walked out to find what had once been a familiar scene turned into a testament to the Legion's intentions for their planet.

On a lonely little road in backwater Ashenvale, the barricade of the former Horde checkpoint had been burnt to ashes by green fel fire. Demons and orcs clashed all over the road, spilling each other's blood with almost gleeful demeanor (the orcs seemed to enjoy the fight slightly more). Through the burning fel fire, Barghash could see a few corpses of the civilian officers who'd been at the checkpoint cut up and smashed to the point of uselessness - a necromancer always noticed such details first when seeing dead bodies. A shattered, barely functioning infernal stepped on the last civilian officer, a goblin running for dear life, squashing it like a bug.

As soon as the five acolytes exited their gate, they cowered behind the necromancer. "The Legion is invading Kalimdor!" one of them shrieked.

Having spent two years as a footman in the Alliance army before joining the Forsaken by choice, Barghash wasn't intimidated by melee combat. Squinting his eyes through the eye sockets of the goat skull he wore as a mask, he calmly formed a rough assessment. "No, this is nothing...these are probably stray demons that wandered too far from Felfire Hill," he replied as he watched the corpses of felguards and felhunters alike drop like flies.

In the midst of the fight were half a dozen or so orc raiders. Hunched, a bit short but heavyset and thick-bodied, the green-skinned wolf riders ran circles around the demons, slicing clear through flesh and bone with their great knives that were easily the size of broadswords. Even as they absorbed the blows of more numerous enemies, the orcs let out hearty gut laughs as they forced the demons to stumble after them. The Horde soldiers appeared to be losing, but they also appeared to enjoy every minute that they were cutting down waves of nipping demons.

Ever the planner, Barghash rested a hand on the hilt of his scimitar - the weapon a holdover from prior to his magical education. "This is most interesting...you," he said to the undead vindicator, "take out that infernal so we can watch."

"Must hear and obey," the draenic skeleton in armor replied as she charged at the infernal, hefting her heavy mace and taking a chunk out of its right arm. The two wailed on each other, breaking off pieces as they battered each other with blunt force trauma in a war of attrition.

The undead orc, somewhat decomposed like most undead Forsaken, crept up to Barghash. "Shouldn't we help?" she asked nervously.

He held up a hand to her. "Wait, my dear; just wait," he replied as he studied the tactics of the orc raiders.

The stout green humanoids riding the dire wolves were rather different from human cavalry. Rather than holding close together for protection, charging in straight lines to break the ranks of the enemies and donning heavy armor to protect themselves, they threw themselves headlong into the dog pile of dead and dying demons. They broke and rejoined formation frequently, rode right into the center of dangerous foes and even grabbed ahold of enemies with their free hands and dragged them around, stunning and demoralizing rather than outright killing them. The thick build of the orcs was perfect for trading shots with felguards, and their wolves chowed down on the felhunters with no visible reaction to what must have been the foul taste.

"They're just what we need," Barghash stated out loud as he watched the last of the brave mounted warriors fall to the few remaining demons, themselves badly injured. Noticing that the undead draenei had smashed the infernal to bits and lost only one arm and parts of her armor in the process, he saw an opportunity. "Finish them off," he ordered her while pointing toward a handful of battered felguards recouperating.

"Must hear and obey," she repeated as she charged, taking them demons by surprise when she balanced her mace with a one-handed grip and retained enough force to crack open the head of the first felguard, sending it back to the Twisting Nether before the others could react.

Striding over toward the fallen orcs and wolves, Barghash inspected the numerous wounds that had been necessary to finally bring them down. A stray felhunter tried to pounce on him, disintegrating into the Nether when he carved open its chest and throat with his scimitar in midair. Ignoring the shrieks of the acolytes when he did, Barghash hung the weapon back on his belt and knelt down.

"We haven't even started recruiting cavalry yet, but we'll need to...perhaps these brave ones deserve a second chance." Reaching to the shoulder badge of the raider wearing a captain's tassel, he found the man's family name written in Orcish. "Nader...Nader the raider...well, I guess we know what we'll call your unit, then!"

Noticing that the demons were all gone, Barghash quickly shot a glance in the direction of a crumbling sound. Having sustained too much damage from the infernal and the weapons of the felguards, the undead vindicator was no longer able to stand. The necromantic bonds holding her bones together dissipated, and her armor fell to individual pieces as the skeleton no longer stood upright. More due to his distaste for waste than any sort of attachment to a minion, Barghash frowned.

"That settles it; we have our newest unit," he said as he stood back up and inspected the raiders. "Stay on the lookout. And by the shadow, try not to be so timid," he told the acolytes and they huddled in a group behind him.

Once more, he dug into his mana pool, charging up the mass raise dead spell in preparation to bind seven orcs and seven wolves to his will. To his surprise, he could feel many deal souls clinging to his spellcast, fighting to answer his call and hold on.

"They're actually aware of what I'm doing," he murmured in fascination as he completed the spell cast. "I've _never_ seen this before."

Green and purple tendrils wrapped around the bloodied corpses, leaving their wounds intact but stopping the bleeding as the spell gripped them. Pulling them up like puppets on strings, Barghash was surprised to find the bodies fighting their way back into consciousness before they'd even fully regained control of their motor skills yet.

"Returned...have returned...we have returned," one of the raiders mumbled, her faculties of speech partially stunted by undeath.

Their captain, an exceptionally broad if squat man by orc standards, blinked his light blue eyes. There wasn't quite enough sentience in those eyes to signify more than a minion, but he certainly appeared more intelligent than a ghoul. "Captain Nader is...reporting," the undead orc droned, staring ahead blankly. "Where...are...the demons?"

Amazed at how easy the reanimation had been, Barghash almost forgot to answer until the seven raiders started to look at him. "Ah yes, your enemies...the cowards who attacked your checkpoint. They're in the Twist...I mean, the Broken Isles."

One of the raiders attempted to speak, but his lips were uncoordinated. "Must...break...the demons..." it droned.

"Yes, yes, break the demons. _I_ will help you break the demons, all in good time." He turned back to the acolytes. "Open a gate back to Tirisfal. Now."

"Yes, mister Narume," they replied in unison as they began opening a further, deeper portal across the ocean.

Without needing to be told, the raiders formed a line in front of the gradually materializing portal, easily falling into formation without needing of be told. Barghash ran a finger over his rings, wondering how the day could have been such a lucky one for them.

 **A/N: and now for our return to Lordaeron...Barghash isn't the only one who's been busy.**


	10. Soul Eaters

**Soul Eaters**

Zulgha tried to organize the armful of letters she carried in her arms, balancing everything as she walked down the hall of what had once been an Alliance schoolhouse in west Andorhol. Since the Forsaken had retaken the city, it had become a bustling metropolis, and possibly the biggest undead city proper above ground level. It was also the perfect place to begin their recruitment drive, since so many people had responded to a single, ostensibly discreet advertisement she'd placed in the Andorhol Gazette (without Bunsenburger's knowledge or permission). Unfortunately, most of the letters came from noobs or the only recently raised; why they expected to be given a chance against the biggest demonic invasion the world had ever seen was beyond her.

The current mayor of Andorhol, eager to show the Queen that the city was supporting the war effort, had generously granted Zulgha the entire schoolhouse both for interviews and as a temporary residence (since the city was more overwhelmingly undead than normal Horde settlements, there was no inn, and only a single restaurant). Reaching the main office of what had once been an Alliance headmaster, she set her paperwork down on the desk, drew a penis on the face of a portrait of Varian Wrynn and seated herself. She barely had a minute to collect her thoughts before her zombie assistant knocked on the door.

"First applicant," the half-intelligent undead human said as it (she honestly couldn't discern its gender) knocked on the door.

"Yes, yes, come on in," she replied while tying her bed hair in a loose ponytail and pulling her hood up over her head. Standing up in anticipation of receiving the guest, Zulgha was amused when the door swung open and she found herself greeted by a garland of skulls staring her in the face. "Well, you're certainly dressed for the occasion!"

When she gave the visitor a good look up and down, she found that the skulls were actually a sort of low hanging necklace on an otherwise barely clothed, lithe-bodied individual with hide the color of a bruise. The two-toed sandals informed her of the visitor's background. "Yeah, sure," the visitor replied in heavily accented Orcish as she ducked her head under the doorway.

Obviously a jungle troll, the woman bore every sign of a bonafide witch doctor. Although the Darkspear tribe were the smallest and weakest of trolls, the visitor still had to slouch in order to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. Covered mostly in bones, wood and a skirt sewn from skin, the tribal applicant looked upon Zulgha in shock.

"You be alive," the Darkspear woman mumbled.

"Zulgha of the Frostwolves, servant of the shadow, proud citizen of the Forsaken," she replied while shaking the visitor's much larger hand. "And you would be Nahimana of the Darkspear, if I have my paperwork organized properly. Correct?"

Still in shock and not hiding it like a typical backwoods troll, the visiting witch doctor nodded while staring. "That be me," she replied tersely. "I thought this be a place for the Forsaken army."

Slightly annoyed at the woman's lack of tact, Zulgha maintained a polite front while glancing at Nahimana's companions, only partially visible in the hallway. "The Forsaken is an idea, not a race; I'm assuming that's why you responded, yes?"

Nahimana appeared confused and a bit reserved. "Yeah," she replied, again terse and to the point. "So you not be, like, a shaman or something?" The tone of her voice implied that she was being indirect about what she really wanted to ask. It wasn't Zulgha's style at all, nor was it a style the orc wanted in their battalion.

"There's no place for talk of spirits, or elements, or tree-hugger stuff here. We follow the will of the shadow because it's the only way to truly defeat the fel."

Blinking her lightly glowing red eyes a few times, Nahimana appeared to open up a bit. "Okay. Cause that be why we answered," she replied, blunt as a blacksmith's hammer.

Zulgha smirked. "Let me guess...you're one of the members of your tribe who got butthurt because the Darkspear banned voodoo in favor of shamanism when they joined the Horde?"

"How you know that?!" Nahimana replied in a more pleasant sort of shock.

"You aren't the only one; others who prefer the old beliefs of your tribe tend to make their homes here in Lordaeron, so it isn't a wild guess in my part. Now, then, we know that we have similar interests...so what can you and your colleagues bring to the table?"

When Zulgha pointed to the open door in the hallway, Nahimana started to open up even more. Although she wasn't necessarily animated, she almost became a different person once she was comfortable. "We got what you need," the voodoo practitioner replied with a sharp smile that accentuated her long, hawk-like nose. "We the ones who gonna make your minions be jumping and raging all over the battlefield."

"A support unit, right? I remember your letter answering the ad. Apparently, you and your colleagues can enhance...do you mind if I see the others, by the way? I don't think more of you can fit in this room."

"Yeah, yeah, they just out here. Hey! Get ready!" Nahimana grunted as she brusquely exited without a word more. Zulgha followed, finding five more Darkspear ladies wearing etched wood and fetishes, and one of them even had a quilboar tusk pierced through her septum. "You four, come out in front!"

Apparently used to all the yelling, four twisted, hunched over figures squeezed past the lanky Darkspear psychopomps filling the entire hallway. To Zulgha's surprise, a gaggle cursed arakkoa women faced her, glancing up with their feathery faces. "We are the Soul Eaters," said one of them in a warped, echoing voice as she motioned to the whole group.

"You came from Outland?" Zulgha asked, impressed by the odd array of their membership - and, ostensibly, their skill set.

"Yes, from Outland...we're against our people's embrace of the Light in Shattrath. There's nothing wrong with our old ways...which are incidentally much like _their_ old ways," the bird woman replied while tugging on one of Nahimana's pink braids. The cannibal woman didn't seem bothered by the bird woman's troll-like tendency to touch everything and everybody without permission.

"Okay...okay...this is quite fascinating. So you all specialize in buffing the undead?" Zulgha asked while reaching her hand just inside the office and grabbing a clipboard from the top of a high stationery table.

"Buff the undead, debuff the living, and we gotta long list of rituals we be performing, whatever you need." Nahimana's cautious was entirely gone, and she grinned with her wide mouth that literally covered almost her whole face from ear to ear.

A light bulb went off in Zulgha's head. "Would you all be ready for a...live demonstration?" she asked wickedly. To her delight, she received the same smile back from the jungle trolls. The arakkoa had beaks, but their hunched forms bobbed up and down as if they were excited. "I'll take that as a yes. Jeeves!"

The zombie assistant limped from around the corner. "Yes, mistress?"

"Go unlock the attic and prepare the criminal we apprehended...he already received the death penalty, so we may as well carry out the sentence."

"Yes, mistress," the zombie replied as it limped up the stairs. The trolls were so big for the little human sized hallways that they would take time climbing to the attic. Hopefully, Jeeves would have the sacrificial altar prepared by then.

"Follow me," Zulgha said as she just barely managed to squeeze past the tribeswoman after a measure of difficulty. Once she was out in front, she began to lead them all up to the attic. "We have a captive upstairs...an Alliance paladin that attempted to pick off a few of the local fungus farmers a few weeks ago. He kept screaming his own name at the trial and was sentenced to death."

Nahimana rubbed her big, three-fingered palms together. "This gonna be fun," she replied as they climbed the flight of stairs.

"Let's keep your actual plan as a surprise; just act naturally and do what you'd do if you caught a griefer out in the woods somewhere." Zulgha stopped talking until they reached the attic, stairs being her arch nemesis, even more hated to her than running. "Okay...here we are," she panted once they'd reached the very top of the three-story schoolhouse-cum-tryout center. "Jeeves!"

"Yes, mistress," the zombie replied while opening the door for them. Once they were all inside, it closed the door for them and moved beside the altar.

The room was filled with enchanting devices, a small portable alchemy table and racks of various ritual tools and implements. The women known as the Soul Eaters all beamed and catered amongst themselves at the sight of the perfect practice room, all of it centered around a pink-skinned human wearing a prisoner's uniform and a magic-suppression collar. He'd been gagged, and his wrists and ankles were tied to four posts which were nailed to the floor at each corner of the altar.

"Alright, friends...show me what you can do."

They didn't need to be told twice. Like a vile witches' coven, the ten of them descended upon the defiant human, hunching over him until Zulgha couldn't see the man in between them. Purring and humming to him pleasantly, they ran their hands over the surface of his uniform as if searching for a weak point Zulgha couldn't see. She barely even noticed when they began chanting, their calmness offset by the paladin's violent thrashing. With little escalation or transition, Nahimana bent over the man's whole body and appeared to pull something out of his mouth even though her hands were empty. Her nine colleagues started dancing as they chanted to him, or at least the trolls did; the arakkoa didn't appear to be very rhythmic, though their uncoordinated bobbing most certainly contributed to the ritual.

Lifting up what she'd pulled out of the captive's mouth, Nahimana held an image of the paladin's soul by the neck. The human ghost gripped her wrists but proved unable to dislodge himself from her grasp. In a violent scene that Zulgha was both impressed and kind of creeped out by, the group of witches each tore at the paladin's soul like ravenous Scourge, eating it 'alive' as they sucked up chunks of his essence. The body's thrashing on the altar became even more violent before gradually fading away until it lay still and dead.

"Leeeeeeeroy mmmmJJJJeeennnnkkinnnsss!" the paladin's soul cried out defiantly as one of the arakkoa pecked its face with her beak until it finally dissipated. As if the ritual couldn't become any more macabre, Jeeves clutched its stomach as if it was in great pain.

"Ooohhhhh," the zombie groaned as its skin started to pulsate in reaction to the dancing of the Darkspear women.

Eyes glowing red with a ghoulish frenzy, Jeeves began to bloat as its bones cracked and its skin stretched. A dark transformation took place as a result of the ritual even though the Soul Eaters had paid it no mind. Random muscles on Jeeves' body inflated like a jacked up drogbar weightlifter, while other parts of its body swelled into boils threatening to burst like those of a plague eruptor. Joints dislocated as limbs stretched, resulting in Jeeves turning into some sort of a warped flesh beast.

As if nothing major had happened, Jeeves looked at Zulgha in confusion. "I feel a slight itch, mistress," it said in its normal voice, which oddly hadn't been affected by the transformation.

Their ritual complete, the Soul Eaters turned to Zulgha. "So...what you think?" Nahimana asked nonchalantly as if they hadn't just torn a man's spirit to shreds.

Shocked at how they'd even ask, Zulgha paused as her jaw dropped open for a few seconds. "Get your fetishes and tools ready...because you're hired and your first task is to show me that again like four or five times or my amusement! That's the illest shit I've ever seen!"


	11. Indomitable Abominals

**Indomitable Abominals**

Bunsenburger stuffed his hands in the pockets of his light overcoat as they approached what was perhaps the last functional tower of the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal Glades. As much as he disliked leaving his laboratory for too long, he disliked wearing anything other than a lab coat even more. Due to the dimensions of his minion bodyguard, they hadn't been able to ride on mounts, either. He, his minion and the two dreadguards accompanying him had been walking for what felt like two hours or more.

One of the two watchmen from Brill sensed his stress. "It's just over the horizon, doctor - you can see it right there," the armored soldier said while pointing toward the stone toward with his sword.

Quite preoccupied, Bunsenburger found it a chore to pull his mind away from his estate and back to his companions and protectors. "Hmm? Yes, I see it. Our journey is, well, halfway over." They walked about half a mile more before he continued. "I really hope there are enough of them..."

As they approached closely enough to see the red and white tabards of the crusaders, the same dreadguard pointed with his sword again. "There seem to be plenty of them - and, there, they spotted us, too. And...there, look at the whole lot of them. There are more than a few of them."

Just as the watchman had claimed, Bunsenburger noticed many more crusaders than he'd expected. Like ants after their nest had been stomped, they scattered all over in a panic once they saw the four undead persons approaching. Their fear was most likely caused by the fourth. As Bunsenburger tallied the total number of farmers, laborers and defenders, he slowed to a halt alongside his two protectors and his minion.

"There are just over more than double of what Barghash had insisted I bring...well, can't really complain about more cannon fodder."

The bulk of the crusaders at the tower and single crop field were civilians, and they quickly crowded into what appeared to be the single farmhouse. How the living, with all their needs to eat and go to the bathroom, could stand such cramped living conditions were beyond him. The defenders, smaller in number, filed out of the tower and formed a line at the edge of the field. Their tactics couldn't be more predictable, and Bunsenburger wondered how they'd survived for so long after the Queen had ordered their extermination.

"Halt, ye foul demons!" one of the Scarlet defenders shouted at them.

The second dreadguard, heretofore silent, sneered in disgust. "Demons? Parish the thought."

His counterpart stopped next to Bunsenburger, sizing up the crusaders who seemed intent on defending their farmstead but too afraid to offensively charge. "So how do we do this? Do you need us to subdue them?"

Calm and collected, Bunsenburger knelt down and laid his surgical kit on the ground. "No, such restraint won't be necessary; we're only here for shock troops. We don't need to take them alive, nor do we need to worry about damaging them." As he fiddled through his mad scientist's tools, he looked up at the dreadguard once. "You two might be able to sit this one out. Oh, Shelly!"

Responding to his call, his minion finally shambled past, causing the ground near her feet to vibrate as she did so. The Scarlet defenders trembled when they gained a full view of Bunsenburger's female abomination.

Her mu-mu flowing but her wig stiff and unmoving, Shelly advanced on the living like an unstoppable force of blubber, leather and stitches. Her yellow rain boots squeaked as she walked, a stark contrast to the ball and chain she carried. Like a cafeteria lunchlady from hell, Shelly licked her lips as she approached within striking distance of the crusaders.

"Did somebody order...schloppy joes?"

Not granting the crusaders time to answer, she swung one massive arm forward in a wide arc. Her arms were so solidly designed that Bunsenburger had installed an iron bar in one as an anchor for her ball and chain (she wasn't bright enough to hold on to it all the time while on a rampage). Unaware of what she was planning, the crusaders stood their ground. They were caught completely off guard when they discovered that she had been close enough for her industrial wrecking ball and chain to reach them.

Like a slapstick comedy at the Stormwind theatre, her ball smacked into the first crusader and continued its deadly arc. One by one, each defender in the shoulder-to-shoulder formation was annihilated by her ball and chain, each one moving forward with the force and slamming into the defender next to him until they all formed a stacked sideways sandwich of corpses. The eighth and final defender finally proved enough for the ball's momentum to be stopped, and the stack of dead defenders collapsed on the ground.

The second dreadguard's sparse eyebrows shot up. "Nice job!" he exclaimed, too awestruck to even step forward and inspect the bodies.

Unsurprised and more interested in organizing his field medical operation, Bunsenburger didn't even look up from his surgical kit this time. "It's not over yet. Shelly, be a peach and gas the rest of them hiding in that little building, would you?"

As slow as she was, the abomination in a mu-mu looked like an avalanche when she was trying to jog. "I know those kids like their joes _extra_ schloppy!" she practically chirped as she thundered over to the farmhouse.

Wielding an oversized crowbar in her other hand, she walked up to the side of the building and stabbed the windowsill. One flick of her wrist pried the window and the entire frame right off of the building, leading to screams from the large number of Scarlet civilians inside. Sticking her head in through the window fearlessly, Shelly swallowed a bunch of air and burped into the building.

Furious hacking coughs erupted from the crusaders as she belched a noxious green smoke into their building. The entire house shook as they threw themselves against the walls or fell to the floor, blind and senseless as their non-heroic immune systems failed to fight off the status ailment. Shelly blocked the door, ensuring that they'd inhale her breath weapon until they passed out.

Explaining his technique to his two companions as he worked, Bunsenburger trained his gaze on the high-powered inoculation gun he'd converted into an infection gun. "The advantage of ghouls is that they're loyal, tough and require relatively little effort to raise," he said while measuring the concentration of his ghoul serum - a carefully guarded recipe he had to constantly defend from the apothecaries.

One by one, he pressed the infection gun into the arms of the dead defenders, squeezing the trigger and sending a battery of multiple needles to punch a ring of little holes in the flesh. In front of their very eyes, the dreadguards hummed in awe as they watched the skin of the corpses turn tough and leathery as if they'd been mummified centuries prior.

"A necromancer like Barghash can raise fleshy minions via his mana pool; a val'kyr like Runa can raise fleshy minions via channeled focus. Both are effective for spur-of-the-moment reanimation of soldiers on the battlefield. Only through science, though, can we transform mere civilians into ghouls sturdy enough to sustain extended melee combat against dangerous foes. They might disagree with my assessment, though I intend no disrespect. All three methods are necessary for a fully diversified arsenal."

The defenders began to twitch, slowly transforming into ghouls rather than being immediately raised as them. The dreadguards followed their charge to the farmhouse, entering first to declare the structure cleared once Shelly moved out of their way.

"You're looking at eight outside, fifty six inside, whereas you'd wanted only half that. Do you know what to do with them?" the first dreadguard asked. The glint in the man's eye revealed his desire to conscript the ghouls to Bunsenburger, garnering a swift yet concealed jealousy.

"Yes, I do. Barghash insisted that we raise thirty-two ghouls to form a ring around Shelly like a shock unit. If we have another thirty-two, then I'll simply form another unit like this one, but with a second minion in the center."

Although the dreadguard appeared disappointed, the fee they'd both been paid was obviously not lost in them. "Well...wish you all the best, then. I'm assuming that once your serum takes effect, we'll head back to town then?"

"That's correct; it won't take long. In a matter of moments, my shock troops will be ready, and with them the first wave we'll be raining down on the Legion. As my research with various methods has shown, even demons can die...and only death is indomitable."


	12. Dark Wind

**Dark Wind**

Runa couldn't help but grin like a fool for the entire flight to Silverpine Forest. Ever since she'd been raised from the dead a few years ago, her life had been a constant struggle for recognition of her achievements. Rabia, one of the greater val'kyr and the one who'd raised her, was a cruel master who demanded perfection but never appreciated it. Queen Sylvanas, a benevolent ruler whose attention was pulled in a hundred directions at once, assigned Runa to monitor a rogue mad scientist whose well-meaning experiments bore a certain risk of embarrassment for the faction. Bunsenburger, said mad scientist, was inattentive and flippant. Zulgha, her most frequent partner in crime, legitimately cared for Runa's wellbeing but also relentlessly tormented her in a bizarre form of tough love and hierarchical dominance. To hear a kind word for all of Runa's valuable work was rare for her.

Among the other lesser val'kyr, however - more recently raised ones who were under her command, no less - Runa finally felt comfortable being herself.

Baldrun, a quiet one with a wondrous wavy hairstyle with a side undercut, flew forward to speak as the ten of them soared toward a rendezvous point far in between the nearest Forsaken settlements. "Is it much farther, ma'am?" Baldrun asked deferentially.

Nobody had ever called her that before, causing Runa to grin widely again. "We should be...the place that Bunsenburger had marked on the map was about here."

After a few more clicks south, Baldrun sped up to fly next to her again. "There...I see them perched on that really high tree near the shore."

Sure enough, the latest applicants were stationed right where their letter said they would be. In a single line rising above the rest in the area were ten Tirisfal duskbats hanging upside down from the massive branches. Seated above them on the top of the same branches were ten Forsaken citizens - undead humans, a blood elves, and an orc - wearing matching leather armor and flying goggles. According to their introductory letter, they were the remnants of a former guild specializing in aerial combat until most of their number had perished at the Broken Shore. They'd been very highly recommended by several references, but Bunsenburger had insisted that they be observed in a tryout as a matter of policy. Not only did they have a bone to pick with the Legion, but they did with other mortals as well; the moment that Runa approached and hovered in front of them, their leader began talking.

"Hi, how are you," the undead human with only one ear said without turning up the inflection of his voice at the end. "We're the Dark Wind. Are you the Flight of the Valkyries?"

"That is correct, citizen."

"Right good, good, listen," he said without a second's pause, "you want a demonstration, right? Well, this bunch of Gilneans camping below us flipped us the bird when we flew by. One of them even pointed their gun at old Murray here."

The other human male, a non-decayed but cursed undead with a brittle mustache and sideburns, nodded. "They pointed their gun at me," the strangely overweight Forsaken repeated.

"So we were thinking, why don't we use _them_ for our demonstration." One of the u dead blood elves elbowed the chatty human in the side, as if reminding his comrade that they were the ones being tested. "I mean, if that's what you all want. With all respect."

Since her youngers remained silent and held formation, Runa had to fight off another grin as she found herself as the default leader for the whole endeavor. "That's an excellent idea, riders of the Dark Wind. Tell me, is it true that your specialty is aerial sniping at ground targets?"

The leader of the bat riders smiled at the flattery, though his smile looked halfway like a grimace. "Sister, we can snipe, we can snipe snipers...we do it all. Nobody can hit a moving target in the ground while also moving in the air like we can. We don't miss."

Murray, who had to be the only undead with a double-chin that Runa had ever seen, nodded again. "We don't miss, miss."

Amused by their chattiness but wary of their cockiness, she tried to steer the conversation back to the main topic. "Good, so you're aerial fighters who target ground troops. We, our unit, are aerial fighters who target other aerial units. We're interceptors. I think we can work together quite well."

The chatty human understood her point. "You keep any other fliers off our backs, we keep anyone on the ground from trying to bring you down," he said with a confidence that was as inspiring as it was suspect. "Got it."

Without waiting for her order, the ten undead Forsaken stirred on the branches, scooting over such that each was sitting directly over their bats. With little finesse, they crawled on to the backs of the oversized mammals, buckling themselves in to the harnesses while suspended upside down. Their unofficial spokesperson glanced back up at Runa.

"Just give the word, miss."

"It is given," she replied, finally using a line she'd once practiced in front of the mirror but never had the opportunity to actually use.

Clicking with their mouths, the bat riders gave a sort of signal to their mounts, and the animals dropped from the branches. Their maneuverability was quite impressive, especially to a val'kyr; Runa's kind were built for power, not flexibility, and the way the bat riders swooped straight up into the air and practically rotated around as a warm up was quite a sight.

Baldrun floated up next to her again. "Ma'am, I can't actually see any of these Gilneans due to all the trees."

"Don't worry; this is their demonstration. Let's just follow their lead and observe."

Gemma, who had been hovering behind the group until then, sounded disappointed. "We won't be able to participate at all?" she asked.

Technically, they shouldn't...but the combination of being assigned leadership of the group and not having battles in weeks was the deciding factor. "Let's follow...they might require assistance."

Swooping down once the bat riders had disappeared beneath the canopy, Runa led her subordinates at a slower pace. The sound of screeches and growls already reached her ears, and she had to fight to restrain herself from attacking and merely find an advantageous spot to observe.

All along the hills were tents and campfires. Gilneans were scampering everywhere in a panic, outnumbering the Valkyries and a Dark Wind by two to one. Most of the Gilneans remained in human form, though a number of them shifted into worgen as they ran for cover. Already, the sound of gunshots rang out from the ground. The Gilneans were notorious for their gunsmithing - they were the only humans who could rival dwarves - and the amount of lead flying toward the sky was formidable.

True to form, the bat riders broke formation and scattered, fluttering around the very top of the canopy as they led the sharpshooters on a wild goose chase. At no point did any of the bats appear threatened, and the way the riders repeated the same course over a few minutes made it look like they were toying with the Gilneans. Perhaps most ironically, none of the riders were actually firing back.

Branches and pine cones fell as the Gilneans on the ground became more agitated and fired more wildly, so much so that a few of them inadvertently rage-shifted into worgen and continued shooting as if nothing was awry. Their reload times became a bit longer, and more than a few of them had to flee and search for more ammunition.

After a few minutes of dodging, the Dark Wind began their slow offense. An undead human woman, a tiny little thing with most of her face deteriorated, took the first shot. Rather than blasting wildly, she took careful aim and even circled her target a few times. In less than a second, the brains of a Gilnean gunner were splattered on the ground, felling the target with a single shot. More of the worgen-form Gilneans howled, furious that they'd lost one of their own.

The bat riders were fascinating to watch. At no point did any of them express glee or particular enjoyment of their task, nor did they ever slow their almost nauseatingly high speeds. A few times, they even swooped away from the Gilneans camp entirely, regrouping and assaulting from a different direction. Their previous bravado was deserved: they were efficient, exact and excellent in their execution. In just over five minutes, most of the camp was decimated, especially since the undead orc circled the entire area and sniped any Gilneans attempting to run away.

Just as Runa had despaired that she'd _only_ be observing that day, she heard a warning cry that was music to her ears.

"Dogies at three o'clock!" shouted the undead blood orc.

Sure enough, three of the worgen-form Gilneans had mounted gryphons and were rapidly ascending toward the bat riders. The gryphons were not only fast but also more fearsome than the bats, and the angry worgen were likely to make short work of the undead were they to reach them.

The nine newer val'kyr began to beat their wings even faster as they watched, itching for a fight. For the first time since she'd been raised, Runa found herself in control of a real combat situation rather than under control, and she almost felt dizzy with excitement despite her undead state. Her subordinates, however, faithfully waited for her order.

"Gemma, Baldrun, stay on my left flank; when we get closer, you both strike at the target on our far left there. Varpul, Palmira, on my right. The rest of you hang back as reserve troops!"

"Yes ma'am!" they all answered with as much gusto as raspy voiced specters could muster.

"Let's go!"

The first five val'kyr burst forward, pushing themselves as quickly as their heavy (by undead standards) essences could move. Responding well to the coordination, a few of the bat riders started to fly toward the rear five val'kyr on reserve, forcing the worgen to face down their main interceptors head on. Bearing no weapons other than their teeth and claws, the wolf men howled in rage at the loss of their entire contingent. The bat riders passed underneath the val'kyr, accepting their protection so they could finish off the remaining Gilneans on the ground.

Worgen and gryphons snapped their jaws and beaks alike, vicious and ready for the collision. At the last second, Baldrun and Gemma shifted into an under-over formation, with Baldrun under and slightly forward. Enraged, unfocused and unprepared, the worgen on the far left hesitated for just a second too long. Baldrun impaled its gryphon in the stomach with a pike from beneath, allowing Gemma to swing downward with a ridiculously oversized mace that looked more like a stone column for a pavilion with a short handle attached to it. The force of the downward smash to the worgen's head was so great that the two furry beasts shot straight down without even continuing forward, and Baldrun actually had to chase them halfway to the ground in order to save her weapon.

Undeterred, the two other worgen attempted to dive straight for the remaining val'kyr. Slower but also able to float in place, Runa allowed herself to stop, ascend, and thrust her pike at the worgen in the middle. Palmira, to her right, also shot out with her own pike, and both points punched holes in the soft flesh of the gryphon's head and talons. Varpul, waiting on the outside of the formation, stopped in place and held out her weapon defensively, forcing the last gryphon to curve outside and avoid them entirely. The worgen who'd been riding the now dismembered gryphon in the middle leapt on Palmira, its claws latching on to her arms and shoulders. Though she was tough enough to withstand the scratches, the beast was her size, and its weight began to perilously pull her down to certain doom.

In what must have been a minor miracle, Murray sped by the group and shot the worgen in the meat of its shoulder, expertly avoiding any collateral damage to Palmira's wings. Varpul stabbed the worgen in the other shoulder, peeling it off of her companion like a flea and shaking her pike until it slid off. A second shot from the rotund undead human ripped through both of the worgen's knees, ensuring a swift death once it hit the ground.

"Thank you, kind sir!" Palmira shouted across the wind.

Winking in a way that would have been suave had he not been so out of shape, Murray continued to circle around, leaving his comrades to finish the extermination job below. There was precious little time to celebrate, however, as the last worgen rider had curved back around and was charging at them from the other direction, using them as undead shields in case Murray tried to open fire.

"Victory for Gilneas!" the worgen growled just as its gryphon screeched so loudly that the sound was painful.

This time, Runa wanted to try a new tactic she'd been thinking of. "Break!" she ordered, and her subordinates scattered as the interceptors ironically broke formation for the sort of unit they were supposed to block. Unable to stop movement during flight like they could, the gryphon continued flying forward.

"Seize it!" Runa yelled with more enthusiasm than she'd even realized she had, grabbing on to the gryphon's hind legs at the same time.

Slowed by her resistance, the gryphon momentarily lost its balance and almost bucked the worgen from its back. Since she was gripping the gryphon by the ankles, it couldn't scratch her, leaving it no option other than wiggling a lot and whipping her in the face with its tail.

Crying out with glee, two of the reserve val'kyr each grabbed one of the gryphon's wings and began pulling as hard as they could in opposite directions, stretching the creature out and almost halting its flight in midair. The worgen tried to scratch at them, immediately finding a good chunk of its hands blown off by two crack shots by Murray.

Letting go of the gryphon's legs, Runa flew forward and pulled her weapon out again, slipping it around the worgen's neck and using the shaft to put it in a sleeper hold. The beast was much heavier than she'd realized, but with the tug of war being played with the gryphon's wings, she managed to pull the worgen off and leave it dangling in the air. This time it was one of the other bat riders who took out the gryphon, though Runa couldn't see which one it was.

"Grab its legs!" she ordered, and two more of her comrades who she'd left in reserve slung their pikes over their backs and grabbed a worgen leg each.

This time the pulling was much more violent, and Runa heard an audible snap as her subordinates pulled its legs out of the sockets at the hip. Howling and growling, the worgen attempted to scratch her with its mutilated claws, smearing blood all over her armor but otherwise not having any effect. Worried that her perfect black braids might get blood on them, she dropped the beast, and this time the bat riders let it plummet to the ground without shooting it.

Baldrun was so thrilled that she let out a little hoot, and the undead human woman high fived her in midair. The thinner of the two undead human males flew alongside Runa as they surveyed the site of the destruction.

Smirking smugly, the man slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Like what you see?" he asked, and this time the confidence of the Dark Wind bat riders didn't arouse her skepticism.

"Follow us to Tirisfal!" she shouted while leading them all back north. "The doctor will want to see this!"


	13. Venom of Nerub

**Venom of Nerub**

To the south of Brill, perhaps halfway between that city and the capitol, a recruitment drive of a slightly different nature was taking place.

Cobwebs covered the bushes and trees, a stark warning to any unwelcome intruders who might have wandered into the area. Over the uneven terrain, a surprisingly tranquil scene was offered to any passerby. Or at least, tranquil by the standards of Tirisfal Glades. The cobwebs increased in frequency, as did the occasional lantern or signpost along the road, though the locals were nowhere to be seen above ground. Under ground...well, that was a different story.

Sliding down the trunk of a tree, a hairless black mass descended toward a trench, a single red hourglass birthmark causing her to stand out from her surroundings. Skittering quickly when exposed on the ground, the relatively small spider woman hurried over to a cave mouth partially buried beneath a narrow mound. Only when she was inside the cramped caverns of the living nerubian settlement did she slow down.

The initial tunnel downward was a winding spiral, wide enough for several nerubians crawling on opposite walls to pass by each other. At the very bottom of the tunnel were two larger specimens of her race, big, hairy men wielding pikes and guarding a passageway labeled _'Embassy of Azjol-Anak, Forsaken Branch'_. As she approached, they parted and allowed her to enter the settlement of Azeroth's remaining free, living nerubians.

The embassy had grown immensely ever since the Queen of the Forsaken had agreed to a land grant in return for contingents of nerubians in her army. A hatchery had led to new generations being born outside of Northrend, and their population in Tirisfal was actually approaching that of the main hideout to the north. The lone black widow passed numerous familiar faces and had to go through the motion of greeting people without any real news before she could reach her real destination. In the very back of burrow, in tunnels considered poorly lit even by their standards, she found herself waiting for the old friends she'd contacted.

After huddling in a corner for a few minutes, she could feel the vibrations of her two acquaintances approaching, vibrating up the halls until they came into view. Small and spindly like her, the two younger nerubians hurried over, clearly impatient and wondering why she'd insisted on meeting them at short notice.

"Thanks for coming," Purbas said as she rose from the little cubby hole she'd curled up in. "I know you two are busy."

"Not busy so much as we weren't expecting this," replied one of her two friends. "What's this new job all about?"

Glancing around to be sure that they weren't being spied on, Purbas huddled closer to her friends. "I want you both to come to the Broken Isles with me."

"Goodbye," said her other friend while trying to walk away, though Purbas snatched her by the arm.

"You didn't even listen yet!"

"I listened to two words that sum up everywhere I _don't_ want to be right now."

The other visitor also held back their truant counterpart. "Come on, let's hear her out. It's not like we have any other opportunities ready for us."

The comment struck a nerve, and the truant's hairless brow furrowed over her numerous eyes. "Do you have to rub it in?" she asked rhetorically.

Not wanting to lose her friend's attention, Purbas tried to make her 30-second pitch in only 25-seconds. "You both failed your tryouts for the royal guard, right? Well, your training hasn't been in vain. I have an opportunity that would give you both the opportunity for combat experience that could make up for your tryouts, and you wouldn't even need to be on the front lines."

"So what good is it, then?" the skeptical truant asked.

"The value, my friend, is that you'll be taken for another talent. An appreciated talent. A talent that even most of the people in this burrow aren't capable of."

For a brief moment, the truant stopped furrowing her brow. "Spin webs?" she asked in confusion. Her visage softened as if she merely hadn't considered the prospect previously.

"Yes, we're webspinners; we can regenerate our silk and shoot it further and more accurately than anyone out there."

Her first friend released the truant and relaxed considerably, as if she'd already accepted the job. "So what do they need us to do?"

"There's a battalion of mostly undead, two-hundred strong, forming under my employer. He needs an anti-air unit - people who can pull down any flying enemies and either incapacitate them or hold them long enough for the infantry to deal with them. We basically stay behind the infantry and watch out in case anyone tries to fly over them and take pot shots."

Both of her counterparts appeared pensive, but the truant was either more eager or more desperate for work and couldn't contain herself. "So we'd have a bunch of undead soldiers standing between us and the enemy?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"And we'd still be doing our jobs even if we hang out back there the whole time?"

"Yes, nobody expects us to rush forward and throw ourselves against a wall of demons."

Pensive as they were, her two friends still showed little sign of hesitation. After a quick shared sideways glance at each other, they both nodded. "Very well...when do we start?" the first one asked.

"We still have a few weeks before a transport ship will take us there, but it wouldn't hurt to come to Brill as soon as you can bring more. In fact, make sure you can each bring _three_ more; they want nine of us. Check with other webspinners and tell them that we'll be expected to bring down moving targets that could be forty feet up in the air. It's possible - I've done it - but it takes a bit of practice to hit a target that high while facing it with your abdomen."

More skittering footsteps vibrated in their direction, and they faintly could hear the conversation of another group of friends approaching. Since both of her friends hadn't been cleared as combat ready, it was important that they hid their endeavor from all the other nerubians.

"Let's split up. I'll go back to Brill now...and hopefully I'll see you all in a few days," Purbas said as she walked back down the tunnel she'd come from.

Her friends had already started walking the other way by the time they answered. "You will...we can make excuses to disappear from here for a while," one of them said, barely within earshot. "The Burning Legion will soon feel the Venom of Nerub."


	14. Silver Hand Haunters

**Silver Hand Haunters**

Ever since Barghash had returned from Kalimdor, his schedule had been a mess. Even as everyone involved with Bunsenburger's operation rushed to finish the battalion requested by the Banshee Queen, there was still the usual business to take care of. Since he was one of only two necromancers formally accepted into the ranks of the Forsaken, there was a constant stream of requests to the lab for various services of a magical nature. Local Forsaken commanders needed city guards, the Ebon Blade as well as various private guilds demanded minions, wealthy undead attempting to live normal lives needed servants. All of that came in addition to Bunsenburger's research and development projects, which often required long hours of preparation and unplanned emergency assistance when things inevitably went wrong.

Fortunately, he'd been able to pull himself away from the estate in order to fill several unit orders at his own pace. His companion for the next order was, also fortunately, a similar man of few words.

A weathered death knight wrapped in a black cloak, Lazare Garamonde was not a difficult person to understand. "I'm not originally from Brill, but I once led a contingent of cavalrymen who were," he said while fiddling with a ring of rusted keys at the bottom of a rather wide flight of stairs. "We had all been members of the Silver Hand, so I saw to it that their horses were shipped back to Lordaeron with them. That wasn't long before I died myself."

The lock on the wide double doors clicked loudly, and the two of them pushed their way inside. The crypt was mostly threadbare, devoid even of name plates due to the simplicity that the men had all been known for.

"And so their horses were buried in these?" Barghash asked while pointing toward twenty five oversized carcophogi.

Although the bodies therein were once under his command, Garamonde had to inspect each carcophagus before he could confirm or deny. "Yes, each man was buried with his steed at his feet. They were that serious about riding." A quick push to the lid of one of the carcophogi resulted in the loud sound of stone scraping stone. "They haven't been disturbed; the lids are just loose."

Barghash stood in the middle of all the stone carcophogi, measuring the distance between each body. At work, he was usually in control of how much time he had to reanimate individual bodies based on a schedule, but all the mass reanimation over the past week had required him to increase his rate of production. He didn't mind; the orders had given him ample practice with testing his limits.

"This shouldn't take long," he said as he dug into his mana pool without the usual depth or forcefulness he'd used when raising so many bodies at once.

As the multi-colored tendrils of death magic rose and slithered into the carcophogi, the oddest sight met their eyes. Although the reanimation was easy and put no strain on his abilities, there was a physical barrier in terms of the loose stone lids. The dead were quickly raised into undead, but there was an outburst of whinnying as the horses struggled inside of the raised tombs. Not until the spell had completed did the riders stand up, remove the lids with their opposable thumbs and assist their fingerless mounts in crawling out of the carcophogi.

Once the twenty five riders and twenty five steeds were raised and standing at attention in the spacious yet dank crypt, they were the dictionary definition of discipline. Withered to the bone, the steeds still wore the heavy barding of war horses bred for slow charges into ranks of infantry. Their riders, similarly stocky of build, were a contrast of weathered bones and nearly shiny silver armor free of rust. Despite their barely sentient state as minions, they immediately turned to Garamonde in recognition.

The middle rider shouldered his lance and saluted. "Lieutenant Gara...monde...is the war...over?" the skeletal cavalryman asked in a raspy, almost whisper-like voice.

Barghash didn't know Garamonde as well as his other contacts in Brill, but he knew the way the death knight sheepishly rubbed the back of his head was out of the ordinary. "Yeah...yeah, sure, the war is over," Garamonde lied with what appeared to be much difficulty. "You boys did a...did a great job."

Though they didn't move, the eyes of all the cavalrymen flickered in reaction to the compliment. "For Tiris...fal."

"Yes...well, about that. The, uh...the Knights of the Silver Hand are needed again. You see, the monsters, they found a way around the Dark Portal. And there's a lot more of them this time."

This time, all twenty five riders saluted. "Azeroth...must not...fall," they all droned in unison.

"Right...yeah. So listen, friends: I need your aid again. The world needs us to...well, there's a boat leaving for the combat zone shortly. There's a new port on the north coast, and a transport ship is waiting to take a new army. My colleague here - he specifically asked for you guys."

Without even being told, the riders leapt atop their mounts despite their heavy armor and shields. The skeletal horses didn't even react under the burden, remaining motionless until they'd been properly mounted. "We are...ready," the middle rider replied with about as much enthusiasm as was likely possible for an undead minion.

Still visibly uncomfortable, Garamonde ended their reunion abruptly. "That's great...it's good to know. Listen, wait outside the cry...I mean, wait outside, okay?"

"Must hear and obey," all the riders replied more fluently as they rode past, leaving the two sentient humans alone inside the crypt.

Garamonde watched them leave with a melancholy twinkle in his eye. "I've seen comrades raised before, but I wish I didn't have to lie to them like that," he sighed.

Barghash put a hand on the man's shoulder and led him out. "Such is the nature of necromancy; few will retain sentience unless something ties them to this world, as is your case. If anything, it means they were more content and accepting of their fate at the time of death."

Nodding and finally exiting, Garamonde looked like he understood. "I suppose I ought to envy them. But you agreed I don't have to lead them in battle, right?"

"Don't worry; men such as them will be fine on their own. Besides, there's a little bit more I need your help with before we even get you your own unit to lead. Tasks I won't be able to join you for. Consider the Silver Hand Haunters independent from this point."

At the entrance of the crypt, Garamonde paused for a moment. "We're short on time; what else could I do? I'm no good at raising minions."

Barghash smirked as they walked into the night air. "Raising minions isn't the only way of enlisting them. Sometimes, a bit of...persuasion is needed."


	15. Bone Collectors

**Bone Collectors**

Zulgha tried to rearrange her makeshift office as quickly as she could. There would only be a few moments before the next applicants for their battalion arrived, and the previous rejects had made a terrible mess of the west Andorhol schoolhouse prior to being ejected.

"Evil clowns...by the shadow, who would want to hire a troupe of evil clowns?" she grumbled to herself while restacking her veritable piles of notes on potential recruits.

Far too early for her preference, her zombie assistant was already knocking at her door. "Mistress...new applicants here."

"Shit, now? Oh, quick! Did you get rid of all the poisonous silly string and exploding confetti?"

"Yes, mistress. But I need a new hand because exploding confetti."

"I promise Bunsenburger will attach an even better one, but I need you to bear with me here." Zulgha flipped through her schedule of meetings, but was unable to locate it among all the other papers the evil clowns had scattered with their evil rabbits pulled from their evil hats. "Jeeves, who's next, I can't find anything in here!"

"Logistics unit. Thirteen of them."

Giving up on locating the exact application, Zulgha instead stuffed a bunch of random papers on a clipboard in order to look like she knew what she was doing. "Alright, send their representative in. The others will need to take seats in the hall."

"Yes, mistress," Jeeves said while limping down the hall.

Just a few moments later, Zulgha heard the sound of a handful of undead limping with very similar gaits. After a few moments of hushed chattering, a light knock was heard at the door.

"Yeah, come on in." When the voices chattered a few seconds more, she rolled her eyes and wondered how many more applicants she'd have to reject; she'd been in Andorhol nearly a week and had found only a single suitable unit so far. "I said, come on in."

The door opened, revealing Jeeves standing in the hallway with a bloodless stump where its hand used to be. Zulgha squinted at the doorway, wondering where the supposed applicant was.

"Down here," came the sound of a chainsmoker's voice from behind the stacks of loose papers and notebooks on Zulgha's desk.

The orc set her clipboard down and stood up, peering over the edge of the desk at what appeared to be a pile of rags. Upon closer inspection, the pile of rags appeared to be sewn together in a rough outfit over what appeared to be a miniature hunchbacked wight. The being's diction, however, suggested a mind more profound than that of a simple minion.

"May I stand on this wooden crate you have in the corner here?" the little creature that looked like a miniature flesh golem asked. "I don't mean to trouble you due to my stature."

Blinking and trying to figure out which parts of the rags were sleeves for limbs and which parts were extra folds of fabric, Zulgha found herself being the one to pause and lose track of the conversation for a second. "Hmm, yes, by all means," she replied once she realized she was staring.

The little hunchback scampered over to the corner with a surprisingly fast stride despite its limp. Its arms flailed out as it moved and its feet walked in a sort of circular motion rather than a straight line, but there was a sort of brisk dexterity to its movements that defied its asymmetrical body type. Once it dragged the crate over and stood up, it peeked at her from what appeared to be the breathing mask of a sewer laborer, thick leather with the goggles built in to it. Even through the goggles, the eyes were far too expressive for a mere wight.

An awkward silence passed as the strange creature continued to stare at her. "So...you represent a group of thirteen?" she asked, at a total loss for words since she didn't have any of her notes handy.

Once prompted, the hunchback opened right up. "Yes ma'am. I represent the Bone Collectors; we're a group that manages cleanup and salvage on the battlefield, specifically the type of salvage most relevant to any undead army. You've seen our track record, right?"

Again, it took a few seconds for the words to register in Zulgha's mind. "Uh...yes, of course, I've seen everything relevant to the case," she replied in her best attempt at an official-sounding voice. "But just to confirm that you are who you say you are, could you orally recite your group's record of achievements?"

When the hunchback appeared flustered by the request, she mentally congratulated herself on bullshit successfully pulled off. "Yes, I most definitely could, miss," it replied while nervously playing with its gloved, odd-numbered fingers. "We were in charge of the post-battle cleanup at most Forsaken victories in the Tanaan Jungle on alternate Draenor, land-based only. We also performed mid-battle logistics during the final assault against alternate Archimonde. If you, if you check the testimony from the Dark Lady's field commanders, you'll find that we ran supplies to Alliance soldiers on the front lines to keep them alive long enough for the Horde to regroup. Then when the Alliance soldiers finally fell, we salvaged them too and used their body parts as replacement limbs for wounded Forsaken. Then when too many of our dreadguards fell, we pieced them together into one big super Forsaken that punched Archimonde in the nose to interrupt his casts."

Zulgha chewed on her pencil, trying to imagine what the sight must have looked like. It was certainly a great feat, and the creature seemed too smart to lie about a claim so easily verifiable, but she didn't want to appear _too_ eager to hire a new unit. To an extent, she even questioned her own readiness considering the mild sense of desperation she felt after days of nothing but rejects at her door.

"And you truly did pull that off all in the middle of a battle? Even with, with, like, fel canons and fel fire and fel fire tornadoes raining down on everyone, and all sorts of crazy shit like that?"

The little hunchback winced behind his goggles as if he was offended. "Honest! We had to work hard to earn the reputation we have. We might not be flashy or intimidating like combat units, but our job on the field is invaluable. Especially for beings such as us undead, who can't be healed without on-the-spot skin grafts and weaponized limb transplants. Or the blight, which is technically illegal. Or cannibalism, but not all undead can stomach that."

More images of undead minions with knives for fingers and guns for eyeballs who shot people by winking at them floated through Zulgha's mind, and she had to strain in order to prevent herself from laughing out loud like a crazy person.

"Okay, you're all on the team-"

"Hey everybody, we're on their team!" the little hunchback cheered in its gravely, tobacco-stained voice toward the door, causing Zulgha a measure of irritation at the commotion that followed.

"Hang on, I wasn't actually finished talking!"

The pile of rags turned back around on its carton, looking up at her sheepishly. "Sorry, so sorry, ma'am. My apologies."

"Please maintain professional composure at all times. This is serious business." Once the chattering in the hallway died down, she continued. "As I was saying, you're all on the team if you can give my assistant Jeeves a new hand. Right now."

The nervous look increased in intensity under the creature's goggles. "As in... _now_ now?" it asked.

"Come on, my assistant's severed stump isn't going to repair itself!" Zulgha stood and walked out into the schoolhouse hallway, and the leader of the Bone Collectors limped quickly on the tails of her robe. Outside, a baker's dozen creatures of similar patchwork body types and raggedy clothing leapt to attention. Jeeves stood at the end of hall, much of its left hand and forearm missing. "Jeeves, you're getting a new hand today!"

"Thank you, mistress."

Completely making it all up as she went along, Zulgha ignored the nervous stares of the various hunchbacks and patchwork pygmies as she scanned the hall for materials. "Alright, you all want a spot in our battalion? Then you'll need to turn Jeeves from office assistant to lethal fighting machine. And your only materials are...that big trophy case, the filing cabinet in the corner...and, uh...that grandfather clock at the other end of the all. You have ten minutes." She folded her arms just to show them how seriously she meant her business, sending the misshapen little creatures into a minor panic under the heat of her judgment.

Their work truly was impressive. Running far faster than a Bareens cheetah, the hunchbacks were a whir or energy and motion as they stripped the entire hallway down to the gypsum board. The trophy case and grandfather clock were pulled apart by shockingly strong little hands, lead wires were pulled out of them, fires were ignited inside of the old trophies and the components of the file cabinet were bent and shaped. The asymmetrical limbs of the Bone Collectors possessed only limited ranges of motion, but also expansive levels of speed and strength. A few of them even had extra limbs, or tools for limbs, and they aged with swift precision as they tore apart the hall and everything in it for materials. Sporting surgical skills that could rival that of Bunsenburger himself, they argued briefly about which scraps of wood and metal would be the most effective before performing on the spot surgery on Jeeves' mangled stump. At only eight and a half minutes in, they'd firmly installed a toothed axe to Jeeves' forarm that was sturdy enough for the assistant to swing it hard against the metal filing cabinet without becoming loose.

Nervous but hopeful, the baker's dozen hunchbacks in rags huddled together like lemmings. "With time to spare...and that was only with what we have in this hallway," the representative said. "On a battlefield, surrounded by discarded bodies and equipment, we'll be your most important people for salvage and maintenance."

Jeeves looked rather pleased while swinging around its axe hand. The hunchbacks looked so hopeful, like a bunch of grimy little abominations proud of their work. And Zulgha had finally located another support unit are a week of bad luck in interviews.

"Welcome aboard!"


	16. Flesh Beast Flayers

**Flesh Beast Flayers**

Electricity crackled as the energized coils of the laboratory lit up. Humming in a gradually descending tone, the light that they cast on the stone grey walls decreased in luminosity such that a normal person could see their surroundings without protective glasses again. The mad scientist's laboratory continued to hum to a different sort of tune, the constant flow of electricity and concentrated arcane power punctuated by the cacophony of noise and blur of movement that dominated the intimidating interior. Even when the electricity in the coils and the forced magic in the cables waned and gave way, the shine of beakers, levers, clamps, probes, and mana channeling crystals illuminated the last throes of the inhuman process that was nearing its end.

An intravenous drip reached its completion in synergy with the loud punching sound of industrial-strength surgical staples. Gears turned, whistles blew, a bag of transfused Forsaken plague pumped, and a final cauterizing rod smoldered. After several hours of a reverse necropsy, the equipment surrounding the central operating theatre was hung on the appropriate ceiling hooks.

"Eureka!" Dr. Bunsenburger cried out as the last spark of his electrified coils fizzled out.

The cauterizing smoke cleared, the pressurized plague pumps powered down, and the stone-walled laboratory finally came to rest. Bunsenburger handed his last scalpel to his bone golem assistant and instinctively wiped his forehead with his handkerchief even though his undead body no longer produced perspiration.

The bone golem crooked its neck to peer over the mad scientist's shoulder, only meekishly speaking up. "Operation successful?" it asked.

"Let's see," Bunsenburger replied as he focused on the blue mass occupying his operating table.

A pile of beefy musculature laid still on the cold table, stripped to the skivvies but motionless as the doctor probed at it. All things considered, the flesh was remarkably unblemished despite the taxing procedure it had just endured. Only around the most modified areas were there any signs of alteration, and even there, the sutures were so strong they could likely withstand piercing attacks by sharp objects. Taking great care, Bunsenburger removed the intravenous feeds of Forsaken plague and liquified anthrax that had replaced the hemoglobin in the flesh beast's circulatory system, sealing those incisions as well.

There were no signs of life from the still corpse...but then again, there weren't supposed to be signs of _life_.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the burly mass began to twitch. Hooves skidded against the cold metal of the table with relatively good coordination despite the creation's initial confusion. A normal lower body stirred first, sliding legs and tail over the edge of the operating table as hundreds of kilos of meat stepped onto the stone floor. The right arm swept over the table first, its natural limb amputated at the wrist and replaced with a long Lucerne hammer as a weaponized hand. The hammer's shaft had been installed all the way down the length of the forearm to the elbow joint, but there was still enough length of the shaft emerging from the wrist to double the beast's reach. The left arm had been severed at the elbow, with the tibia and fibula each replaced with a separate, independently movable mantid limb. Big shoulders towered over Bunsenburger and the bone golem, crowned by absolutely nothing since the draenei's head had been lost in the process of its death.

Instead, the tiny head of a gnome had been sewn on in its place. The diminutive noggin on such a thick neck stump only emphasized the beast's physical power.

Devoid of real intelligence, the draenic flesh beast with a gnome for a head stood at the ready, neither breathing nor interacting as it awaited orders. Almost in slow motion, a pleased smile spread across Bunsenburger's face.

"Its undead!" he exclaimed. "Science prevails!"

Frightened but curious, the bone golem leaned a bit closer to get a better look at the gnome head on a draenei body. "Garamonde left very random...pieces of these...intact."

Bunsenburger was in awe of his creation, barely paying attention to his assistant as he felt the flesh beast's quads. "Hmm? Oh, that twit claims these two accidentally killed themselves and he was just trying to save them. Or...something like that," he murmured, enraptured by the blades on the two insectoid blades in the left arm.

"How shall the...ghouls be divided, Doctor?" the bone golem asked.

Bunsenburger grit his teeth as if he'd been asked the stupidest question in the world. "We have sixty four ghouls from the assault on the Scarlet Crusaders. Split them: thirty two will surround Shelly in a square, and the other thirty two will surround our Nick, here. Thus, we already have our first two units of shock troops," he said, pausing for effect. Unfortunately, the bone golem didn't realize that Bunsenburger was at the end of a clause and not of a sentence.

"There won't be a third, master?"

Facepalming, Bunsenburger waved the calcium construct away. "Of course there will be, you fool; there's still one more. I wasn't finished talking."

"Sorry, master-"

"As I was saying...this is just the beginning. Shelly and Nick can help to lead the charge once we begin our assaults. The ghouls will remain low, so low that the swings of blunt force trauma by her wrecking ball and his warhammer will safely soar over the ghouls' heads. They can also provide the perfect lower body protection for their bigger counterparts, swarming around their legs like a reinforced fence. It's the perfect combination for breaching the outer defenses and forward units of the Legion!"

Bunsenburger turned back to the bone golem. "Go, ready the ghouls for some drills in the courtyard!"

"Yes, master," the construct replied as it quickly hurried out of the lab, likely grateful that it could escape its master's scrutinizing gaze.

For a good amount of time, Bunsenburger just stood there in the lab, admiring his creation. The little gnome eyes stared back at him, dumbfounded and obedient as they rested atop those big, wide shoulders.

"Come...meet your gregarious companions!"

Without fail, the flesh beast named Nick followed the mad scientist out of the laboratory, through the halls and into the courtyard of the walled compound. The murloc fins that Bunsenburger had attached to the length of Nick's back flapped in the wind, as colorful as they were useless. A third eyeball where the draenei's belly button had once been opened up for the first time, scanning the courtyard for stealthed entities before closing again. Shelly was waiting there, her rotund bulk orbited by two outer rings of leathery ghouls. An equal number of the creepy little creatures waited across from them near a large, ornate bird fountain filled with green ooze instead of water, watching and waiting.

Bunsenburger begannto direct their movements, grinning wide at his creations. "Indomitable Abominals...meet the Flesh Beast Flayers!" he cackled while pointing from the group of idle ghouls to Nick.

On cue, the little creatures skittered over to the flesh beast, crowding around its legs as they formed a similar pair of rings orbiting their unit's leader. The entire group was a perfect match - scars and stitches, bone fragments and brawn, and a surprising amount of cunning for barely sentient beings. Bunsenburger pressed his fingertips together, drumming them in anticipation.

"Excellent..."


	17. Arcanite Rain

**Arcanite Rain**

Alone among the various crypts of the Brill cemetery, Barghash was finally at peace for the first time in days. Under the Tirisfal skies which always seemed a little bit dark, with the silence of the wind his only companion, he strode among the final abodes in the city of the dead. There were no pushy officers demanding more troops, nosy neighbors who's undeath meant they had nothing better to do but gossip all day and night, no random inquiries from his colleagues and acquaintances at Bunsenburger's estate. No, there were none of those things in the Brill cemetery. There was only him...and the shadow of death.

The large domes and enclosed stairways to the catacombs underneath passed him by as he strolled, offering untold tales of the various generations buried there. One of his contemporary regrets were the lack of time he spent studying the records of those interred there, learning precisely what sort of powers were waiting beneath his feet for the call to rise once again. There was simply too much to be done, and too little time to do it, for any extensive catalogue of buried soldiers to be drawn up.

No...on that specific day, Barghash would have to settle for a cursory glance at a very specific section of the massive Brill cemetery. For the battalion was finally coming to shape; it was gaining its aerial squads, its cavalry, its logistics and support, its infantry...but it was still in need of ranged combat.

In the sizeable military section of the cemetery, Barghash began to walk more rapidly as he passed in between the various tombs and crypts. He'd scribbled a few notes on a sheet of scratch paper based on a brief look at the burial records, but he still wanted to be absolutely sure that he was entering the correct burial chamber. Not all of the heroes and heroines at Brill were buried alongside their comrades, and he simply didn't have the time to sort out individual graves. No...with the strike against the Legion looming, his mind was only on mass military tombs. Or in this case, a specific mass military tomb famous for a certain unfair scandal.

It didn't take long before he was able to identify the correct door. An above ground entrance to the location he'd sought looked rather drab, undecorated, and nearly unmarked; the names on the door outside had been scratched off the commemorative plate by vandals. Using a skeleton key he had to the cemetery, he entered the underground tomb alone, lighting wall lamps along the way as he descended into the well-stocked communal burial. The air was dry and cool, and the plain interior was organized despite the defacement at ground level. The thirty carcophogi filled out several wings of the chambered tomb, forcing him to spend even more time performing an exact count. Thankfully, the ranged fighters had mostly died in a hail of fel fire that burned them to death, leaving their skeletons in tact. What was even more interesting, though, was the cause of the scandal which had tarnished their legacy.

At the insistence of the families of the fallen, the heroes and heroines of the ranged squad hadn't only been buried with their light armor; they'd all been buried with their crossbows. Possessing a shorter range and slower rate of fire than traditional bows but a much stronger penetrating force, crossbows were a horror on the battlefield. Even plate wearers weren't safe from crossbow bolts. Conversely, the crossbows were also expensive to build and maintain, and those firing them required much more formal training before they would be competent using them. It had been assumed that, upon the death of an entire squadron at the same time, their weapons would be appropriated by local authorities for redistribution; that the families insisted their loved ones be buried with the tools they lived and died by was seen as selfish.

But not by Barghash. No...he understood the needs of the dead very well. To directly raise the troops without first checking on their munitions didn't even cross his mind. Only when all the main crossbows, maintenance tools, supplies, and wheeled mobile carriers were accounted for did he begin to work his magic.

Although he couldn't directly see all the bodies when reanimating them, he knew their exact positions, and could feel the tug as his magic reached out to all thirty of them. The strain had become negligible after all the practice with mass minion raising he'd had in the past week, and by the time he could hear the stone lids of the graves shifting and sliding, he felt as if he'd barely gotten started. In fact, the more difficult part was organizing a group of thirty minions scattered across multiple wings and atriums in the burial chambers.

Without even being told, the shooters left their graves and began searching through the personalized foot lockers next to each one of them. Their precious weapons and equipment were all neatly organized and wheeled into the central chamber just in front of the crypt's exit; only when their scandalous, valuable munitions were secured did the skeletal crossbow wielders turn to their newfound commander, waiting for orders without asking any questions.

No different than a squad of living soldiers, they all lined up as Barghash walked up and down their ranks in a unit inspection. Totalły different from a squad of living soldiers, the crossbow wielding skeletons actually _passed_ inspection: not a thing was out of place. Every link in their chainmail suits of armor was finely shaped, every pair of boots stood evenly, every weapon and munitions carrier was in impeccable condition, and every soldier saluted in a wave formation as he walked up and down their ranks. They represented everything that Barghash's fellow living mortals didn't. And, he believed, they'd succeed where mortals who'd fought the Legion had failed.

"Whatever your local community said of your possessiveness...whatever scorn they heaped upon you for taking your most trusted weapons to your grave...whatever slurs you had to bear for retaining that which rightfully belongs to you...stand firm."

For undead minions, the skeletons were surprisingly animated. They had no more flesh which meant no eyebrows, but the way their jawbones opened up and their heads turned to look at things other than Barghash signaled that they very well understood the depth of what he was telling them.

"Stand firm, and stand proud...because no matter what they said, you earned what you all chose to keep. And in the end..." He paused for effect. "You won."

Like a group of young recruits at a pep rally, the skeletons rattled, their teeth clicking together as they silently reacted to the praise.

"You won because your prized possessions are still with you right now. You won because you were all buried in your armor as you asked. You won because you have your own tomb, here with all your comrades, rather than individual graves with the plebeians. And you will win again...because the world needs your arcanite bolts one more time."

At the mention of their abundant ammunition, the expensive crossbow bolts that had been their namesake, the previously motionless skeletons raised their fists in excitement. When Barghash pointed toward the stairs leading out of the crypt, they all began to quickly wheel their individual equipment carriers out, hurrying toward whatever foe they'd need to kill to continue making a name for themselves even after life.

"Not even plate wearers could withstand a single blast from your pieces; they were nothing sort of terror weapons. No wrathguard or mo'arg brute will remain standing when you're finishing with them," Barghash nearly yelled as the skeletons exited the crypt with so much gusto that they hadn't even received directions as to where they'd need to go. "We'll take this fight to the Legion's doorstep, right into pockets of fel corruption in the Broken Isles - the easiest way to permanently kill demons outside of the Twisting Nether."

More rattling echoed from the surface, signaling the rare display of joy from undead as the crossbow squad found its talents respected and requested once more. Barghash followed all thirty of them to the surface, grinning again as they all closely followed his lead unquestioningly.

"Bring the rain..."


	18. Bastards of Arugal

**Bastards of Arugal**

In addition to running a tight salvage operation, the Bone Collectors also organized workspaces surprisingly well. After reinforcing the defensive ramparts surrounding western Andorhol with parts scavenged from the garbage dump, the little hunchback creatures had also sorted all the loose papers and files in Zulgha's makeshift office. They also stitched together a fedora for Jeeves for no readily available reason, which made Zulgha like the idea even more.

Consequently, she finally let like her normal self again - prepared, aware, and almost waiting for potential applicants for the battalion to try to forge combat commendations, exaggerate work histories, or generally obfuscate their actual abilities. She'd already ran through a battery of tests with generic ghouls, newly risen noobs fresh from the Forsaken cemeteries, and warlocks posing as specialists on undeath. Although Zulgha had expected the job of sorting through applicants to be time consuming, the slow rate at which she was discovering actual competent members had alarmed her.

Until, of course, the rate picked up two mornings after she'd hired the Bone Collectors. As she sipped on coffee mixed with trace amounts of liquified Forsaken plague (to build her immunity to the volitle stuff she frequently handled), her schedule for the day caused her to pause.

"Jeeves, are you out in the hall?"

The sound of a limp leg dragging against the wall answered her first. "Yes, master," came the reply thereafter.

"I think there's a typo in this interview you scheduled for this morning...what's this about Arugal?"

Her assistant limped over to the door of her office. "Damion Steel delivered...that application," it replied. "He pulled strings to...get the worgen permission to...enter Forsaken territory."

Zulgha's eyebrows shot up. "Worgen? Seriously?" She leaned forward on her desk, setting the coffee aside. Her interest had been firmly raised. "And they have permission to enter Andorhol?"

"Steel is a...VIP here. He knows them...somehow...got them permission to...come."

Flipping open her notebook, she began writing down her ideas as fast as she could. Although she would allow herself to be impressed by gimmicks, the next group of applicants certainly deserved the interest they'd piqued.

"What about joining, if it comes to that? Joining our battalion, I mean? Could Steel..." Zulgha paused, gnawing on her pencil for a moment as Jeeves shrugged innocently. "The Queen has accepted oaths of fealty from worgen death knights, though out of the millions of subjects of the Forsaken, I don't think those number more than a dozen..."

"Fourteen...as of last month," Jeeves said.

"Okay, basically slim to nil. And these fellows are the...okay, the name Arugal is there. I don't know if it's just a stylistic name or what, but I don't see any seal for a capital city next to their name - not like all the other applicants."

A knock was heard from down the two hallways leading to the front of the schoolhouse, signaling that the time had come. Jotting down as many preliminary thoughts as she could, Zulgha waved Jeeves away. "Okay, send them in. You don't know any more details about them yourself?"

"No...I only had contact...with Steel-" Another knock came from the door. "I go?"

"Yes, yes, send them in. I don't think we have much else to go on."

Jeeves limped off, meeting the group of applicants at the door. According to the schedule, there were twenty-eight of them, a rather strange number for a military unit. Perhaps if they were irregulars it would make sense, but the official name of their unit and the endorsement from a decorated soldier contradicted that possibility. It was no matter; as the sound of many feet echoed off the floorboards, Zulgha tried to jot down the last few questions she had while finishing her coffee. The familiar odd breathing pattern of canines followed, though barks and growls did not; for a pack of borderline animals, the applicants sounded surprisingly orderly.

To Zulgha's shock, however, the individual who stood in the doorway as their representative wasn't a worgen...she was undead.

Wrapped in camouflage colored cloths with a weird net-launching gun strapped to her back, the undead human looked quite different from the worgen, one of whom stood behind her. "Goody Two-Shoes at your door," the camouflaged woman said in a thick Gilnean accent, "and yes, that's my real name."

Nearly biting on her tongue not to laugh, Zulgha stood and shook the woman's hand with a forced poker face. "Zulgha of the Frostwolves, at your service. Please, take a...ah...your associates don't mind sitting in the hallway, do they?"

"The chairs are a little small, but they already sat down. They have instructions to wait." Once Goody had sat down, her amber eyes flipped between Zulgha and the defaced portrait of Varian Wrynn on the wall.

"It's a penis," Zulgha said casually, her hands folded in front of her as she tried to pass her statement off as normal.

"Beg your pardon?" Goody asked in confusion.

"The drawing on his face is of a penis. It felt appropriate at the time."

Although a scarf covered much of Goody's face, the way her brow arched downward signaled her discomfort. "Lovely. Err...about your advertisement?"

Strategically moving a flower pot so it obscured the portrait, Zulgha picked up another notebook and pretended to read from it. "Alright, so there are obviously a number of questions I have about your operation. You can probably guess the first of them."

"Our name?" Goody asked.

"Precisely."

"Yes, Damion was intrigued by that when we first met as well. I assume you know what happened to Arugal?"

"Of course. And I thought I knew what happened to the Sons of Arugal...those who didn't leave to Northrend, I mean. Wasn't the last one of them killed shortly after the fall of the Greymane Wall?"

"Obviously not; we're here," Goody said while motioning to both herself and the worgen standing outside the door. "When Arugal was taken the Scourge, the children he'd adopted were mostly brainwashed into following him. But some of them remained back in Silverpine...neither feral nor docile. They'd lost much of their minds and former personalities, but a few dozen of them retained their moral compass. They knew that their adoptive father was lost."

Goody narrowed her eyes, the only part of her face visible due to the scarf. Her voice was flavored with a bitter sadness. "And so they were lost, too. Nobody cared for them. Nobody...until me and my family found them. We'd also spent our lives in that forest, and when the undead plague infected us, we tried to live alone in the woods, away from the factions. When I first found these people - well, the fact that I knew they were people is why we took them in. They're shellshocked, most of them can no longer speak, but I knew they were people. And so we became their new family, and they our children, since as undead, we can no longer reproduce. Most of these souls as well as most of my family still live back in Silverpine, but a group of us are capable in combat and support the others by selling our skills."

Uncomfortable with the display of emotion from a stranger, as well as at the talk about feelings during an interview for a military battalion, Zulgha tried to steer them back to the subject. "That's quite impressive...you also mentioned that there were others back at your home. What about the list of...one moment...Jeeves!"

"Yes...?" the zombified assistant replied while limping back into the office. The worgen man standing outside the door, a big mountain of grey fur and stretched clothing, didn't appear at ease when the zombie assistant passed him.

Sifting through her papers, Zulgha tried to find sheets of paper that already had writing on them so she could pretend to know what she was doing. "Where are the...we had a roster for the Bastards of Arugal, right?"

Jeeves tried to turn toward a stack of papers on top of a filing cabinet behind Goody. "Back here...on the stack," it replied as it turned, the blade hand upgrade that it had received passing by about a foot away from Goody's shoulder.

The movement agitated the sort of well-dressed worgen, and by the time Zulgha heard the growl, a grey hand wide enough to palm her head was already swinging toward Jeeves. A snarl incidentally escaped the grey worgen's nostrils as his claws struck Jeeves in the head, scratching its face off. Jeeves' teeth, eyeballs nasal passages were left intact as its face was sliced off and sent flying into the fall. Almost comically so, the ugly zombie face stuck to the wall for a few seconds before sliding down into the trash can on the floor.

"That doesn't...feel good," Jeeves said in a laughably deadpan voice. Its teeth and eyeballs were fully visible alongside the grey, withered meat of its face, and it didn't seem to be in pain so much as embarrassed.

As fast as Zulgha had scooted back in her chair and prepared to blast the worgen with her shadow magic, Goody had reached out and gently held the worgen's big hand in hers. "It's alright, dear; the zombie wasn't going to hurt me," she told the snarling worgen as she calmed the lupine man down. "It's okay; he was only protecting me. He didn't understand that your assistant meant no harm." Goody's slow voice sounded a bit rushed, as if the old undead woman felt nervous, though she certainly didn't show that in her demeanor.

Jeeves backed out of the room nervously, just trying to get away from the gradually relaxing worgen man. Knowing that these were non-Horde citizens in the middle of Andorhol, Zulgha had little to fear and quite a bit of control were she to react in anger. Her sixth sense for talent, however, gave her pause when she realized how easily one of the worgen had literally _torn somebody's face off_.

A shocked curve to Zulgha's neatly plucked eyebrows softened into a more curious expression. "So in order to protect you...your worgen troops can do things like _that_ at the drop of a hat?" she asked inquisitively.

Despite Goody's age, she appeared to be out of her element. Her body language became somewhat defensive, though there was a glimmer of understanding in the undead matron's eye. She seemed to be wavering between the fear that her underling had botched their interview and the realization that he'd actually excelled in it.

"Well...this is Sylvester. He's only our accountant, but yes, like his siblings, he's extremely protective. We're the only family they have. And..." When Zulgha began writing notes about the exact speed with which the apparent Sylvester had torn a person's face off, Goody's shoulders relaxed. "...and they'll kill anything they perceive as a threat to their pack."

Zulgha wrote a few more notes before putting the pad away. Her wicked grin even seemed to calm the uppity adopted son down. "If even your freaking accountant can kill so easily, then I'm confident in what the rest of them are capable of. Can you be in Tirisfal by next week for processing with the Forsaken authorities?" she asked while standing up.

Apparently relieved that they'd landed the work, Goody stood up as well. "Yes, Damion already arranged transport for us as well as documentation to allow us to pass through Forsaken territory; he seemed certain that you'd be interested."

"Oh, I'm very interested. If I wasn't so busy here I'd ask to see more, though it might have to wait until Tuesday as this rate." Zulgha reached out and shook Goody's hand. "Welcome to the Restless Dead."

"Say hello to your new cousin, Sylvester," Goody told the worgen accountant as she guided his big hand over to Zulgha's. The lupine man furrowed his eyebrows and adjusted his reading glasses as he did so, and Zulgha noticed the intelligence shining in his gaze even though he didn't appear able to speak.

The two of them stepped back, and Zulgha realized that she had to tie a loose end before she could prepare for the next interview. "Bone Collectors!" she called up the hallway. "Exhume the body of Leeroy Jenkins because Jeeves needs a new face!"


	19. Fury of Northrend

**Fury of Northrend**

Brill was still, as it usually was. The undead went about their business, interacting with the handful of living individuals quietly as the gothic city trudged along at its normal dull pace. Wooden rectangular buildings rose up into the rusty red skyline, standing like dark tombstones against the grey clouds. A handful of spires decorated Brill's outline, clawing toward the unmerciful heavens as if to punctuate the abysmal atmosphere. And yet through all the doom and gloom that Garamonde was so familiar with, two specific dark spikes threatening the clouds drew his attention as he walked toward Bunsenburger's estate.

Although the death knight was no stranger to frost wyrms, he didn't like the particular specimen which Barghash had asked him to prepare. In all the undead, frozen blue dragons he'd interacted with in Northrend, he'd never met one who appeared even quasi-sentient. They'd all, across the board, lost the intelligence that the blue dragonflight was known for in life, becoming mindless zombies just like raised members of any other species. He much preferred them that way; a minion ought not to have independent thoughts of its own.

But the closer her came to the mad scientist's walled lab and slaughterhouse, the more Garamonde felt that the frost wyrm was looking at him and no one else in the city. A custom-made roost had to be constructed from stone since, even in undeath, Nehekaia's ragged form was too heavy to perch on the roof of a Tirisfal-style wooden building. From that roost, she loom over all of the city as well as the zeppelin complex just visible on the northern horizon. Yet those two icy eyes kept staring at Garamonde as if the creature had known him once. Meeting people he'd known prior to his undeath was awkward enough, but seeing the glint of recognition directed at him from a saurian face was an especially bizarre, uncomfortable feeling.

When he reached the gate of the estate, the tips of Nehekaia's two wings rose even higher and her long neck dipped lower. She was practically leering at him, almost looking just as confused as the unintelligent, hollow brain attempted to reconnect with a sort of memory from the past. Garamonde looked away, intent to keep such skeletons - whether humanoid or draconic - locked away in the closet of his mind.

Waiting just inside the gate was a bone golem who'd similarly been watching him approach. Unlike the creeper perched on the stone roost, the bone golem simply appeared too empty-headed to cause any feelings of discomfort.

"Mister Garamonde. You came?"

Confused by the inflection of the golem's voice, the death knight simply peered around to be sure that Bunsenburger himself wasn't available. "Yes, it's me. Listen, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Did Barghash contact you guys about what I need to organize the next unit?"

Two simple eyes started back at him, accentuating the stupid-looking grin that the bone golem's construction forced it to permanently wear. He almost wanted to slap it when it took too long to respond. "Yes. I have received the order. It's for six of our gargoyles and one frost wyrm. Would you like a receipt?"

"No, no, just get them ready. I beat Bunsenburger in a pet battle last month and he hassles me about a rematch every time I see him. Just get all the minions ready quickly."

"Yes, I understand. I'll go organize the minions while the good doctor prepares his battle pets-"

"No, no. You didn't understand me at all. I want you to get the minions ready _quickly_. Meaning, before doing anything else. That way, I can take them all out of here before Bunsenburger finds out I'm here and comes to demand another pet battle I know he'll lose and get angry about."

Those two stupid eyes just hung there in Garamonde for a moment, driving him nuts even before the drivel began to pour out of the unfortunately shaped mouth. "I got it. I'll get the minions ready now. What time will you return for your rematch-"

"There is no rematch," Garamonde said tersely. "Look, this isn't that complicated. I'm asking you to go now, get the minions ready, and be quick about it so I can leave. I don't need you to do anything else than that."

That annoying grin never went away. "Why did you mention a rematch, then?" the golem asked stupidly.

"Just go get the minions!"

"Okay."

The bone golem waddled off in the direction of the bell tower, ostensibly preparing the requisite number of gargoyles that Garamonde was supposed to collect. He hoped that the aggressive mad scientist wouldn't notice; gargoyles could be either very quiet or very noisy depending on their moods. If the six creatures could land near the gate silently, Garamonde would be ready to mount the huge wyrm thereafter and beat a hasty retreat. That way, he wouldn't have to listen to a laundry list of complaints as to why he must have been cheating in all the previous pet-

"Hhhhrrrrrrr..."

Not only did Garamonde glance up at the stone roost, but so did a few undead townspeople who'd been walking by on the street. The area was one filled mostly with large, palatial homes or professional facilities, so traffic was light, but every pair of glowing eyes on that street was so fixated on the groaning frost wyrm that the focus of attention became plainly obvious.

Like an overgrown parrot, Nehekaia dragged her talons across the roost before merely jumping to the street with a few heavy flaps. Her movement looked more like climbing than flying, and she quickly folded her wings against her bony flanks after landing with such force that an undead mailman on a bicycle bounced into the air and fell into a bush at the side of the road. Cooing deep in her rotten throat like a giant chicken, the frost wyrm created quite a ruckus as she inspected the death knight waving his arms in an attempt to shush her.

"Shhh! Quiet! Just sit tight, we'll go in a minute!"

A weird light flickered in Nehekaia's ice blue eyes, and the undead dragon seemed to understand. Ceasing her odd vocalizations, she settled for instead shoving her gigantic dinosaur head right up in Garamonde's face to get a better look at him. Her tail nearly brushed across the iron gate, threatening to rattle an alarm that would alert everybody in the neighborhood.

Even worse, Bunsenburger himself seemed to have already picked up on his pet battle nemesis' presence.

"You, go get my anubisath idols!" Bunsenburger shouted at one of his minions inside the brick walls of the estate. "I won't be denied this time!"

Garamonde facepalmed, his plans for a swift retreat falling apart in front of him. There were precious few seconds before the low class behavior of a super-educated upper classman would force the death knight to either burn a significant bridge (especially with the impending assault on the Legion) or to enrage Bunsenburger by defeating him again...and probably Burning that bridge anyway.

Not wasting any time, Garamonde grabbed ahold of a withered scale on Nehekaia's body and hoisted himself up into her back. "The gargoyles can catch up; we still have work to do!"

With a completely gratuitous roar, Nehekaia caused a major scene as she began to rumble done the street and got a running start to take off into the sky, knocking a few more pedestrians into the bushes in the process. Garamonde watched the dull grass whiz by beneath them as she circled around to gain altitude, swooping dangerously close to the bell tower. Six gargoyles who'd been roused from their stone form by the bone golem all leapt from their perches excitedly, tagging along behind the larger creature on cue. The golem itself nearly fell out of the tower and plummeted to its destruction, narrowly saving itself by grabbing on to a gargoyle that was still in stone form.

Down in the courtyard below, Bunsenburger burst out of his main laboratory building in a huff, surrounded by zombies and clutching a bunch of anubisath idols in his arms. Setting them up hurriedly, he pointed an angry finger at Garamonde just as the death knight flew out of Brill city limits and pretended not to notice.

"It's been too long since I've flown!" Garamonde chuckled as he pulled out his scythe and sat up on the undead dragon's weathered saddle. "We have our main aerial strike force...but there's still much to do. To the north!"

 **(The north of Tirisfal, not Northrend. Just making sure nobody gets their hopes up for something that won't happen.)**


	20. Flaming Death

**Flaming Death**

By the time Barghash finished his quote for rallying enough troops, the entire Brill cemetery was probably going to be empty.

The necromancer wiped a bit of sweat from his brow, feeling the burn after copious amounts of digging. One of the drawbacks of raising an undead army on short notice was that every body was needed on the front lines, leaving few minions for manual labor. Zulgha had sent a letter about some little salvage creatures called the Bone Collectors, but they hadn't arrived in Brill yet, leaving Barghash to do the heavy shoveling on his own.

His companion and the most apparent beneficiary from the effort, of course, barely lifted a finger to help.

Finneas, an ornery little undead human with a metal arm, continued to waste time inspecting the corpses they'd dug up in a special section of the cemetery for former Kirin Tor affiliates. "Missing scpaula, broken vertebrae, no feet...these corpses are rubbish," the becloaked man with a powerfully beating nuclear heart mumbled.

Ever the conscientious necromancer, Barghash frowned at his companion, more for the man's gross ignorance than his laziness despite never growing tired or sweating. "No corpses are rubbish, Finn. You, of all people, should understand that," the living human said, earning a skeptical grunt from his undead compatriot. "It would be more accurate to say that most of these aren't intact enough for our current purposes."

Truth be told, the Kirin Tor members in Brill seemed to have died in one hell of a battle, whatever it was that had killed them. Of the few dozen bodies all buried in their own exclusive corner, the overwhelming majority were smashed beyond recognition. Due to his obsession with order and symmetry, Barghash was forced to do some quick math in his head.

"There are a few ways we can do this," he said while stabbing his shovel into the soil and leaning his elbows on it. "If we leave them as is, just say they're ranged DPS and don't need to really move much, we can get thirteen of them. That's an awful number, but I can't justify throwing some of them away and not others if our standard is simply an intact spinal cord and skull. And mage gear."

"A head and brittle body will get ganked pretty fast," Finneas said, adding a comment of value for the first time all night.

"Precisely. But if we put together the intact body parts we have, then we end up with nine skeletal mages. That's not a bad number - we could do three circles of three casters - but they would still perform better as minions with someone sentient leading them."

"We don't have any mages."

"I know, Finn. That's where you come in."

Bristling as if he'd been insulted, Finneas seemed legitimately blindsided despite the choice being obvious. "What - me? I'm not some pencil-necked bookworm!"

"You're not a mage, correct. You don't really fit any recognized class. But your heart contains the essence of an enslaved storm elemental, and you can cast chain lightning, so that's ranged magical damage right there. You also don't have anything else to do in the battalion so far, and leaving you in logistics is a waste of potential."

"I'm not some brainless minion!"

"I _know_ that, I helped raise - argh. Look, Finn. Think of it this way. You're the most powerful caster we have," Barghash lied. "I think it would be an absolute travesty to keep you on the backbench, and a bunch of stinking abominations wouldn't suit your style. But _these_ ," he continued, sweeping his arm across the dank graves he'd exhumed. "These minions suit your talents. I don't think we could accept granting you any less."

His interest visibly piqued, Finneas rubbed his prosthetic metal lower jaw. His ego had been stroked, but he appeared to think he knew how to play hardball.

"I don't know...it sounds okay, I guess."

"Just imagine: raining lightning and arcane missiles down on ranks of demons," Barghash said, selling the idea as best as he could so he could just get rid of Finneas and move on. "And it would all be under your captaincy. _Finneas, captain of the Flaming Death_." Barghash swept his hand across the horizon in an attempt to illustrate what a billboard with the cheesy name would look like.

"Flaming Death...I like it!" Finneas said, even though neither lightning nor the arcane necessitated that any fires would ignite when demons were struck.

"So we have a deal, then? I can put you down for this on the roster, and then we have our ten-man ranged-magical DPS?"

Finneas waited only a few seconds, and his attempt to appear hesitant failed hardcore. "Hmmm...deal!"

Barghash left the shovel to the side and rolled up the sleeves of his enchanted cloak. "Alright, then. We have some work to do. We need to take these parts and reassemble them into only nine corpses _before_ I raise them - Finneas?"

Upon hearing a quick shuffling, Barghash looked up to find himself alone in that corner of the cemetery, his longtime (if unreliable) comrade having disappeared. A fresh trail of uneven footsteps led back out to the Main Street of Brill, implying that Finneas had bolted the moment more work was mentioned.

Once again left to his own devices, he shook his head and began the toiling of laying out the bones of different corpses in an arrangement that would allow them to be bound together by his necromantic magic. "I'll be counting on all of you to do the real work," he sighed as he jumped in and out of moldy graves, dragging femurs and pelvises along with him. It took him a few more minutes to carefully lay out nine complete skeletons mixed and matched from different Kirin Tor graves, but the work paid off in the end: nine sets of arcane mage gear laid before him, staves in bony hands and fabric stuffed with bones and sinew, all of them ready to rise again.

Although Barghash had spent the past week and some change raising units of up to fifty someodd corpses at once, those were all melee infantry plus one ranged infantry unit. Their essence required a mere physical bonding to the magical cores, leaving them walking husks ready to follow every command but devoid of any sort of energy of their own. To raise an undead spellcaster, however, required energy; bringing one of them to the shadowy state that was neither life nor death felt as taxing as raising five plate-wearers. Bringing nine of them to undeath felt almost like raising his spearmen rear guard in the beginning of his quest.

For the first time since he'd started testing his limits at the start of this whole endeavor, Barghash felt truly challenged. As the tri-colored swirls of death magic flowed out of him and into the rearranged corpses, he finally tasted manaburn again as his pool was depleted. When the latest unit had been raised, he'd probably need to change his robe and take a shower before returning to the cemetery again.

After the residue from his raise dead spell faded away, he was treated to the site of the magi rising from the dead. Pure magical energy like the essence of an Outland ethereal wrapped around the battered forms of the patchwork spellcasters. Silver light flickered and flashed around their joints, and what seemed to be a levitation spell raised them to their feet rather than the simple, rough jerks of a risen meathead. But as quickly as the bright energy of the arcane had embraced their forms, the silver glow around them turned _green_.

"Yes...let the shadow embrace you," he said in a gravely voice deep in the back of his throat.

As eager as the risen orcs of Nader's Raiders had been, the skeletal mages readily answered the call, their joints snapping into place as they gripped their staves aggressively. "Must hear and obey," all nine of them droned in unison. A few of the mages who'd been pieced together from multiple corpses spoke in multiple voices at the same time, signifying a strange merging of souls to create extra powerful casters of magical artillery.

Standing, for the first time in his career, before minions he'd raised that were his intellectual equals - or possibly even superiors, save their lack of free will - Barghash couldn't help but laugh out loud. It was the first time he'd laughed, truly laughed, in many years.

"Now, we can fight the Legion's fire with fire..."


	21. Blood Pact

**Blood Pact**

Zulgha wiped the blood off of her robe as she bit Goody Two-Shoes and the Bastards of Arugal farewell for the day. They'd spent the past ten minutes throwing captured SI:7 spies to the non-Alliance worgen to let the lupine skirmishers blow off some steam and for Zulgha to see a live demonstration, and the practice yard outside the schoolhouse had gotten a bit messy. Not that she minded the mess, but she did prefer to keep her clothes neat and tidy whenever her profession allowed for it.

Jeeves, having just come out of a surgical procedure with the Bone Collectors to transplant the face of Leeroy Jenkins onto its head, was quick to re-dampen her handkerchief as she walked back into the schoolhouse. "Looking good, Jeeves," she told it as she wiped down her robe again and walked toward her office.

"Thank you...master," the zombie replied. The face of the human paladin fit rather well, and the lips actually synched with its speech, unlike its previous (and original) face post-mortem.

Once she was satisfied that she'd done the best she could, she handed the handkerchief back to her assistant, resigning to herself to a visit to a laundromat later that evening. For the time being, she still had unfinished business for that day.

She seated herself down in her newly organized office, patting one of the ragged little Bone Collectors who'd been jerry rigging her filing cabinet into an Iron Maiden for her on the head. "So we have one more interview today, apparently," she said while flipping through a manila folder with grainy, creepy photos of a dreadful looking sindorei prince. "I hope it's a good one. We've found some good people so far, but we're running out of time."

Having been in surgery for the past half hour, Jeeves appeared a bit pressured. "I read most...of the file. There is a...letter. From Barghash."

Zulgha squinted at the files in the folder for a moment. "Where is...is it on the back of one of these forms? I don't see it."

Jeeves plucked out a folded up note wedged in the middle of the stack. "Here," it said while handing her the note.

"Thanks. Let me see this...oh, what the hell?"

 _Z,_

 _I think you should take a look at these guys._

 _B_

"Well, no shit. Seriously, he doesn't usually do stuff like this."

For the first time, Jeeves was actually able to display emotion since it had a fresh face. "He doesn't...write notes?" it asked flatly, but with a curiously raised eyebrow.

"He writes a lot of notes, but they're usually excessively detailed." She paused for a moment, flipping through the photos and reports from Forsaken scouts in Northrend. "Maybe this is what I get for asking him to be more brief in his writing."

Aside from being grainy and creepy, the photos didn't reveal much. There were a lot of bats, but not ones large enough to ride; just little weird looking ones flying in formation like ducks. There were also some photos of black blotches over the moon, and what appeared to be a Lordaeron dragonhawk with greyed, frayed feathers. There were also a few more weird portraits of blood elves that looked sick, but not in the way wretched do. There was also a very elaborate portrait photo of a pipe organ and some guy in a cape brooding over the keys.

All of the photos carried dates and signatures of the various field agents who'd taken the photos, but there was no written explanation of what it all meant-

"Good afternoon."

"What the hell!" Zulgha gasped in fright at the sudden voice of a third person in the room.

On pure instinct, she scooted her chair straight back against the wall, and the spellcast for her silence ability had already begun when she saw the dark figure casually sitting across from her. At no point had the door to her office shifted, nor had she heard anyone floating up the halls. The man was clad in dark robes similar to hers and looked entirely corporeal, so he couldn't have floated in like a ghost. Yet there was no call from the doorman, no hint from Jeeves, no sound or even vibration in the air to herald the strange albino wrapped in deathly garments.

Seemingly unbothered by the fact that Zulgha was very obviously preparing to cast an offensive spell on him, the haggard-looking albino with a black cloak collar covering his mouth spoke calmly.

"I hope I've arrived at a convenient time," the thin figure said in a Thalassian accent.

Retaining her spellcast for a few more seconds, Zulgha remained on edge as she studied the drowsy eyes circled by darkened skin. The familiarity struck her quickly and she glanced down at the creepy photographs, connecting the berobed man to the guy playing a pipe organ.

"I can't actually play that," the creepy thin man said, somehow oblivious to how much he'd startled her. "I just thought it would make for a great picture."

Mildly upset that he'd welcomed himself inside, Zulgha reminded herself that he had technically been scheduled for an interview and allowed the intrusion to slide. "Yes, well, your friends do have decent photography skills," she replied while brushing off her robe and sitting in a comfortable position again. Jeeves continued hiding behind her. "Mister?"

"Prince Marrow, formerly of Quel'thalas. Formerly..."

The sickly elf in gothic robes stared down at his own lap for a moment, his sullen eyes glimmering with a whole bunch of melancholy which Zulgha didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.

"Right. Prince Marrow. Well, unfortunately my associate Barghash hasn't given me much information to go on. However, we both know that you're here to interview for a role in our battalion, and that you'll need to be ready to roll in less than two weeks. For what reason are you interested in joining?"

Sniffing the air like a creep for a few seconds, Marrow seemed to snap back into reality from a far off place. "Right...the Restless Dead. Myself and five of my associates are the ones interested in joining your cause, actually."

After a few moments of conversation, Zulgha finally realized that the man speaking to her was no ordinary high elf. She always kept a few spare vials of the blood of different races in her workplace, and in that case, she'd stored them in the desk drawer in the office she'd commandeered. Rather than asking him further questions about his friends, she opened the drawer and pulled out a glass vial of fel blood as a test.

Hazy, glistening eyes suddenly focused when she opened the drawer, and she could tell that he was able to smell what she'd been storing. The beady pupils followed her hand's exact motions as she held the vial between them on the desk as if even a millimeter of movement would be noticed. When she propped the vial up in a little stand on the desk, Marrow actually laid his palm down on the desk before stopping himself and noticing that he wasn't alone yet.

Eagerness unbecoming of beings as long-lived as elves swept over the parts of his face she could see, and it was almost cute. He tapped his finger nervously like he was deciding whether or not to ask.

"May I?"

Zulgha grinned. He was darkfallen. "I don't know. _Can_ you?" she asked right back. "Fel blood corrupts."

"Not us. We're different from the rest of you." Lifting his hand up, he strained his narrow fingers like spider legs as he held his hand next to the vial. Red spheres of energy began to emanate from the vial at the same time that the green goo began to decrease in volume. The color change was instantaneous. "My kind are, shall you say...experts in blood magic. Whatever we drain, we convert to a form most palatable to us."

Zulgha watched as Marrow's skin darkened to a relatively healthier tone, and the exhausted glean in his eyes diminished. "But how do you intend to use this power in the battlefield?" she asked.

Savoring the experience, he waited a few moments in a stupor before answering. "Hm? Oh, yes. My friends and I were all dragonhawk riders once; aerial anti-air units. Our aerial shackles could magically hold any other flying troops in place. An enemy will not hold still while their life force is being drained, so we...how do you say? We force them to be still."

"And you have your own mounts already? Like, you'll be ready to go when the boat for the Broken Isles leaves?"

Though the hunger had left his eyes, the way Marrow sniffed the air again seemed less creepy and more greedy. "My friends and I are fully geared and ready for combat at any time. We could use, of course, a bit of sustenance between now and our departure." His eyes met Zulgha's and then darted down to her desk drawers again. "We can make small amounts last."

His suggestive tone wasn't lost on her. She tended to hoard her reagants, but she was on a recruitment drive; she'd have to give a little to get back in return. "Am I correct in assuming that you're in this for your sustenance, and not for the money?" she asked while handing over her last six vials of different types of blood.

Gladly accepting the gifts, Marrow tucked them away into the pockets of his long coat, his attention falling away from the conversation again. "Yes, that sounds about right," he replied. "So Barghash told me that if you accepted, we'd meet on the northwestern coast of Brill at the port they're rushing to build. Is that right?"

"Yes. It seems he already told you the logistical details, hoping I'd accept you." Zulgha picked her ledger back up to write an entry about having found another aerial anti-air unit. "His hope rings true, because I'm actually glad we found you. Now, just to be sure...Prince Marrow?"

Jeeves glanced around the suddenly empty office with her, its dull eyes shining in confusion. There hadn't even been a poof of smoke to signal the darkfallen's disappearance.


	22. Festering Freaks

**Festering Freaks**

Bunsenburger watched the corner of his estate that he'd cordoned off to surround a deep pit he'd had his minions dig. The excavated, fenced off area was bigger than a large pig sty, leaving plenty of room for potential test subjects to run around. As objective as the mad scientist tried to remain, he could barely contain his excitement at what he was about to do.

Thirty crazed zombies shambled around the pit, docile and at rest in the absence of any living bodies they weren't familiar with (they'd already learned to fear Barghash and Zulgha through conditioning, rather than hungering for them). Most of them were simple Lordaeron humans and high elves in civilian clothing, though a select few of them had farm implements surgically attached to their arms for extra power. For extra intimidation factor, he'd managed to fit jack o lanterns on the heads of a few select subjects.

Heavy, plodding footsteps alerted him to the approach of his newest creations, and he stood back to take in the view. Led by his bone golem, three plague eruptors skulked over to the zombie containment area. The trio were nothing but writhing masses of muscle, tumors, random tentacle mutations, and pulsating pustules. Two of them had been ogres in life but somehow become even more mindless in undeath, as well as unrecognizable. The middle plague eruptor, however, stole the show. Formerly a tauren now sorting a skinless skull as a head, Azrukal had been a frustrating and dangerous test subject at first. His rebellious nature combined with his inability to communicate to make for an ornery minion, and it had taken Barghash numerous necromantic sessions to finally bring the star eruptor to heal. When Azrukal's single right eye and three spontaneously mutated left eyes stared at Bunsenburger obediently, though, the mad scientist knew their efforts had paid off.

The zombies began to stir with nervous energy, though not hunger. Their brainless stupidity gave way to a sort of instinctual stimulus response, and all thirty of them at once looked up to the three plague eruptors with a fleeting air of recognition.

Only when Bunsenburger was sure that he had the former tauren under control did he commence the contamination process. "Let them in," he instructed the bone golem.

The mass of mixed skeletons nodded and opened the sty, moving aside as the three ashen eruptors stepped down into the pit and occupied a large amount of space. The zombies backed away for them, all facing their larger counterparts with order and formation lacking even in the living. This was going tremendously well.

"Commence contamination," the mad scientist ordered the former tauren.

Without acknowledgement that they'd understood, the three eruptors began to bob and vibrate, much to the fascination of the zombies. Azrukal's fur fell out in a few spots, revealing pores that had started to ooze like those of the former ogres. With a single gush of pus, anti-demonic plague began to blow out of the pores like escaping steam, falling to the ground and slowly filling the bottom of the pit with a green cloud up to the height of the shorter zombies.

Entirely on their own accord, the zombies approached the eruptors, huddling around them and forming a tight crowd as they basked in the noxious fumes seeping out of the diseased skins. Like their big counterparts, the human and elf zombies shook and fidgeted for a few moments, absorbing the fumes into their own skin like semi-permeous membranes. Even when the plague eruptors stopped actively pumping out the green gas, the zombies exuded gaseous clouds of their own, fully adapting to the anti-demon plague and becoming thirty miniature breeding incubators for an affliction that would blind and choke only demons specifically.

"Hoooo...magnificent," Bunsenburger crooned.

The dim-witted bone golem seemed unaware of the significance of what it was witnessing, but at least understood the need for field tests. "We have those SI:7 initiates who tried to assassinate you...do you want them thrown into the pit?"

Bunsenburger grinned maniacally. "Do you have to ask?" he cackled, sending the bone golem off to begin the combination field test and live entertainment.


	23. Rothide Renegades

**Rothide Renegades**

Garamonde watched the rust-colored forests of Tirisfal pass below him as Nehekaia soared. He'd been enjoying flying again so much that he worried he'd passed over the location Barghash had marked for him on the map, and had to pay close attention to the exact features of the rockier areas they were approaching. There was still much work to be done.

One of the gargoyles escorting them began to screech excitedly, fluttering around as if it was trying to grab his attention. Without a word, the death knight glanced over at the creature, watching it dart in front of his field of vision.

When the gargoyle dove, he knew they must have been in the right place. The creature was dumb, but perceptive and free of pretense. A quick tug in the reins of the frost wyrm sent the entire group circling toward the ravine covered by the forest canopy, approaching an unseen target that was very easily heard. Nehekaia hadn't even landed yet when Garamonde first heard the hyena snickers.

"This is it," he murmured to himself as Nehekaia crashed over the ravine.

Down below them, he could already see the hyena people scattering in reaction to the frost wyrm roaring over their ravine. There were no settlements for miles, and no places for the gnolls to feasibly flee to. This would be the easiest part of the trip.

A quick head count of the Rothide clan below them revealed that there were more of the undead gnolls that Barghash had requested. "We have some extras; thin out their numbers to make a point," he ordered the frost wyrm.

Another roar escaped Nehekaia's throat before she bowed her head down into the ravine and emptied her crop. Ice breath sprayed into the ravine, filling up nooks and crannies as the Rothide gnolls found few avenues of escape. Their short but broad, heavy bodies proved too slow to run away but perfectly shaped for blocking incoming fire. A large number of them were saved simply because their comrades were in front of them to absorb the ice breath, and the survivors scattered into the dugout homes they'd dwelled in during mortal life. Snickering even as they faced permadeath, the undead gnolls trashed much of their own makeshift dwellings just to escape the ice breath.

Garamonde saw no reason to drag things out, and he exercised what little necromantic magic he could muster while shouting the gnolls down. "I'll only say this once: the Dark Lady's army demands cannon fodder and meat shield," he yelled while casting a control undead spell in the general direction of the hiding gnolls, just to weaken their resolve. "March back to Brill with me or die forever."

He didn't need to tell them twice. Rotten, decayed bodies and mouths full of yellow teeth responded as the gnolls ran toward the choke point that lead out of their ravine. Dirty holes closed up with straw doors burst open as the Rothide gnolls sought to preserve themselves, rushing to meet the demands of the death knight spamming control undead on them. Flails, morning stars, and meteor hammers were all dragged out by the squat and sturdy hyena warriors, clinking all the way as Garamonde counted them one by one at the exit.

"Forty seven, forty eight, forty nine...that's fifty," he whispered to Nehekaia as the last of the gnolls he needed exited and began the march south to Brill. "Leave no others alive."

Callous and unwavering, Nehekaia shoved the rest of the gnolls back into the ravine with her nose, emptying herself of her frost breath for at least a few hours. Those who'd remained beyond the fifty required troops tried to escape to the bitter end, but ultimately crumbled into decayed meat and shards of ice as the frost wyrm bid good riddance to the rest of the clan who'd harassed undead travelers for so long. In a matter of moments, the entirety of the Rothide clan was either forcibly conscripted into the suicidal front line of the Restless Dead, or permanently destroyed.

"We have no dead weight, so we need to protect them all the way to Brill," he told both Nehekaia and the gargoyles. In a flash, all seven of the flying creatures leapt from the ground, taking running starts to catch the wind and circle above.

Below them, a column of fifty undead gnolls hurried toward Brill, weapons in hand, all of them cowed into service to the Banshee Queen. So many troops earned in such little time was certainly a boon for any fighting force. For a certain death knight, however, there was a much more challenging step ahead that involved a portal to an entirely different continent.


	24. Gobbledegook

**Gobbledegook**

Runa's wings would be getting a lot of exercise if she weren't already undead.

Having escorted the Dark Wind back to Brill in Tirisfal Glades, she'd been sent right back toward the south all over again with more minion collection tasks. Since she was technically in charge of the nine other lesser val'kyr in the employ of the battalion, she had to take the lead on all the collection quests assigned to them. Even if her body no longer required sleep, she made a habit of slipping into a Dream state every day, and the lack of time to do so since she'd been sent on all her errands was beginning to wear on her.

That, and the fact that she was carrying an exceptionally creepy geist in her arms as she flew.

Since their mission was to raise more skirmishers for the battalion, the easiest route had been the executed criminals known as geists. Although Bhayangkari, the geist she was carrying, had been sewn together from multiple parts, the creature somehow knew where to find the mass grave where the corpses of murderers, traitors, and loiterers were dumped across the Silverpine border. All ten of the val'kyr were forced to rely on a leathery creature who couldn't even talk for directions.

"Are we there yet?" Palmira asked as the group continued to fly for what felt like forever.

"Obviously not," Baldrun replied.

"Everybody shush, Bhaya is wiggling," Runa said. Indeed, the voiceless geist started to squirm in her arms, perhaps recognizing one of the various grassy hills to the east of the main road.

Silverpine had started to become rather boring after so much back and forth flying that she was simply glad for any sort of distraction. Bhayangkari had the confusing habit of holding perfectly still for long periods of time and then suddenly bursting into activity. The geist's behavior was closer to that of a dog than of a sentient being, and observing her was the only form of entertainment aside from her comrades trying to invent new versions of old jokes for hours on end.

The group passed over an area where the trees were more sparse, and a long, flat hill poked out among them. Reaching out with one of the four arms that Bunsenburger had sewed on to her leathery body for no good reason, Bhayangkari began to vigorously point at the discolored hill. The grass there was a combination of vibrant green and rust red. From above, it almost looked like the planet had been stabbed long ago, and the blood stains remained even after the wound had healed.

"There. This _has_ to be it." Runa began to circle down toward the tainted hill, holding on to the four-armed geist tightly as it wiggled like a flying spaghetti monster in her arms.

Several of her companions reached the hill before she did, hovering a few feet above ground level as they waited for her. Runa herself didn't land either, settling for the release of her quivering cargo as the jet black geist leaped from her arms. Once on the ground, Bhayangkari crawled on all sixes as if searching for something, running her fingers through the ruddy grass.

Unable to seek minions out the way Barghash could, Runa's own necromantic powers relied on visual contact, or the ability of another to seek out those bodies. For a few minutes, all ten val'kyr hovered, watching the geist prance about like an animal.

"Maybe this is the wrong place-"

"Quiet, I don't want to have to search any more."

Thrust into the disciplinarian role she'd never expected, Runa glanced back at the others, finding them all quickly pursing their lips and straightening their posture. On the one hand, she'd always hated how the greater val'kyr Rabia had treated her, but on the other, she had to admit that issuing orders felt like a lovely role reversal. When she felt assured that the others knew to remain alert and silent, she turned back and found Bhayangkari digging up mounds of dirt.

"This is it! She found it!" Runa said.

Clumps of dirt and sod flew as the geist used her spindly arms to drag out corpses, many of them relatively fresh as if they'd only recently been hanged. The geist seemed to have a sixth sense for tracking down potential candidates, and Runa popped her ghostly knuckles as she floated directly over the hill.

"Let's speed this up a bit..."

Drawing on her modest abilities for raising the dead, the lesser val'kyr reached toward the mound of discarded degenerates and charged her fingertips with energy. Crackling in the air, bolts of dark blue energy struck the bodies, striking her targets perfectly. A round of gasping and cooing from behind her temporarily drew her attention.

"I want to do that too!" Baldrun exclaimed.

Runa raised a puzzled eyebrow beneath her helmet. "Do what? Raise minions?"

The sincere nod from a few more of her companions caused her to remember that all of them had been raised very recently. They'd been born anew into undeath less than a month ago, and thus knew little of their own professions. Runa was the only one there who'd actually raised minions before, and her ego jumped for joy so much that she almost couldn't conceal it.

"Oh, this?" she asked innocently, though she was squealing inside. "That's nothing. Watch _this_!"

All Runa did was reach one arm behind her back to cast the spell around the other side of her body, but the other val'kyr reacted in amazement. In truth, Runa was unpracticed and needed to cast the spell a few times before any of the geists would rise, but her fellows didn't need to know that.

Between the bolts of necromancy and Bhayangkari's digging, more spindly hands and gnarled fingers began to poke up from beneath the earth. Mounds of dirt, roots, and sod tumbled down the hill until the hill itself was no more, leaving a large amount of debris and torn up land that was relatively flat and even. Limp bodies of executed criminals began to twitch and jerk, convulsing into life as if they were having seizures. Most of them were wearing the tattered clothing of prisoners, and a few even still had bullets or arrows stuck in their heads. All of them, however, sprang to like with an agility lacking in most of the living.

When all was said and done, a dozen geists of various colors and shapes crouched below, awaiting their orders. A few of them jabbered incomprehensible, increasing the creep factor they'd rely on as they screened the main body of the battalion from enemies when the time came.

"Bhaya, take them back to Brill. Varpul, you and the others grant them cover on the way back should anything stop them from arriving to Bunsenburger on time."

"Yes ma'am," Varpul replied.

"Baldrun, Palmira, you two come with me. We have one more errand to run. Everybody else follow Varpul!"

One of the geists moved its desiccated mouth and crackled out a noise that sounded like the word "yes" before leaping down the road. All of the creepy crawly humanoids followed, watched over by seven of the val'kyr as they slowly made their way to the battalion's headquarters.

Three of those val'kyr remained behind, waiting until the last ghastly geist had bounced out of sight. When they were gone, Runa spun around to look further south.

"Come on," she sighed to her two assistants. "We're almost done, but this next part is even less pretty."


	25. Grudge Bearers

**Grudge Bearers**

Having plundered most of what he could from the Brill cemetery, Barghash turned his sights further eastward on the continent, knowing that there was still plenty of work to be done. This time when he entered the portal one of his acolytes had opened at Brill and stepped into the other side, he didn't even experience the usual nausea associated with teleportation. He'd been using portals so much in such a brief amount of time that the mode of travel _almost_ felt normal.

Stepping out into the Plaguelands, he felt a strong sense of familiarity surround him. The stale air, the dull maroon plant life, the perpetually dark skies...he was very familiar with the far eastern end of the region. So many memories rushed back to him that he didn't even notice when the acolyte and several of the Bone Collectors filed out behind him.

The portal closed behind them, leaving the necromancer tailed by several support units entirely unable to defend themselves. They were far from any roads or constructed dwellings, but they'd arrived right at the place Zulgha had marked on his map, so he knew he wasn't far from his first objective. She was even more familiar with the region than he was, and he began to march through the wilted wilderness without an exact sense of where his targeted location laid.

"I hope we aren't too far away!" one of the hunchbacked bone collectors said nervously, huddling so closely to its comrades that they almost fell down in a deformed little pile of tattered rags.

"It shouldn't be difficult to find," replied another. "They're supposed to be in a marked tomb, right?"

Barghash didn't answer, simply scanning the area for the sights and sounds as he tried to find the spot marked with an X. The Plaguelands were always eerily quiet - the undead were silent, and gave no outward indication of their presence. As a necromancer, of course, he would have known if there were any nearby, but the landscape still unsettled the civilians huddling behind him in a tightly-formed mob. Even though they themselves were also undead, they were sentient, and quite terrified of the remnants of the Cult of the Damned.

A few more minutes passed as they murmurs nervously, though the significance of their surroundings was lost on them. Barghash, on the other hand, was busy measuring their exact steps. He couldn't actually read dwarven runes; however, he recognized most writing systems of Azeroth, and the stones lining the path through the twisted trees were clearly the lamentations of those who'd lost. Rather than regretting what he was about to do, Barghash felt a greater sense of purpose. Few dwarves were strangers to war, whether with outsiders or other dwarves, and the more runestones he saw, the nearer he drew to calling forth long lost heroes of their people who would serve a greater purpose than any they had in life.

After a few minutes more of walking in the dying woods, he knew they'd arrived when the elevation dropped.

The broken foundation surrounding depression in the ground signified a dwarf barrow that had long since lost its roof, the only cause being attempts to take over by the Scourge years ago. The size was modest and compact, though knowing a bit about the construction of dwarven graves, he expected there to be quite a few bodies therein.

"Are we there yet?" the acolyte asked as they descended into the well-designed stone pit of graves.

"Yes!" Barghash answered a little more loudly than he'd intended, though the others were so nervous in the setting that they didn't even notice the accidental harshness.

Down in the barrow, the floor plan was far different from many human grave sites. Instead of using the walls for rows of coffins inserted into the earth, the walls were decorated with looted treasure chests, ceremonial weaponry, and belongings from lives long since past. The graves were all laid out on the floor, similar to how those of the Silver Hand Haunters had been, and the necromancer immediately smiled.

"Z was right...their gryphons were buried with them," he said contentedly.

All around them were large gravestones containing what appeared to be biodata about the inhabitants of the graves. Unlike the human cavalry, the dwarven air force didn't appear to match specific people with specific mounts; the dwarves were simply buried in rows while the gryphons were interred in a separate alcove. Their numbers didn't exactly match, either, though that could also have been the work of grave robbers or the Scourge.

Barghash tallied up the bodies. "Twenty three, twenty four...twenty five...twenty six, twenty seven dwarves and twenty nine gryphons," he spoke without realizing it.

"That means we can have twenty seven gryphon riders!" one of the Bone Collectors beamed.

" _No_ , it most certainly does not," the necromancer replied. He didn't raise his voice, but his companions became nervous at his reaction regardless. "That's a terrible number for a formation, whether aerial or ground based. We'll send twenty five gryphon riders back to Tirisfal, leave two with the mayor of Brill as a gift, and use the remaining two gryphons for our own purposes-"

"Oy! Just what in the blazes are the likes of you doing here!"

The acolyte and hunchbacks immediately cowered behind Barghash at the sound of strangers yelling at them, shivering even more when the flapping of wings was heard. The necromancer turned around to find two living gryphon riders landing in the grave pit with them, their hammers casually hanging from their belts. The old dwarves looked down on the deathly group condescendingly, and even the gryphons pranced slowly as if judging the group.

One of the two dwarves put his fists on his hips. "This is a sacred place, you scallywag," he lectured as the two dangerous beast riders approached. "How dare you set foot-"

Without giving them any chance to react, Barghash flicked his fingers, igniting the rings embedded into his silver gauntlet. A quick raise dead spell with no cast time set off, causing a few discarded body parts and partially mutilated corpses to come to undeath. Though they wouldn't last long and had limited mobility, the arms, hands, heads, and half-bodies leapt on the two riders, pinching or biting the legs and wings of the gryphons and snaring them in place. The two gryphons screeched as more dismembered hands grabbed the hands of the two dwarves, and despite the danger posed by the gryphons' beaks, Barghash strode up to the beast's while they were distracted and cut their necks open with his scimitar.

"What unholy blasphemy is this?" the second dwarf yelled angrily as he tried to wiggle his own hands free of the dismembered hands that had crawled over to grab him.

The distraction succeeded, and by the time the dwarves noticed the necromancer casting a more powerful raise dead spell, the riders and gryphons had already begun to rise all around them.

Barghash shook his head at the two intruders as their former comrades stood menacingly around them. "It seems that the mayor of Brill will be receiving four riders as a gift instead of two..."


End file.
